DISCOURSES ON HUMAN LIFE, 



By ORVILLE DEWEY, 

PASTOR OF THE CHURCH OF THE MESSIAH, IN NEW-YORK. 




NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY DAVID FELT & CO. 

STATIONERS' HALL, 
245 PEARL AND 34 WALL STREETS. 



1841. 



^ t ■ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, 
By Orville Dewey, 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District 
cf New- York. 




TO THE CONGREGATION, WORSHIPPING IN THE CHURCH OF 
THE MESSIAH, IN NEW- YORK. 

My Brethren and Friends, 

In anticipation of leaving my pulpit for 
an absence of two years in Europe, I have collected these 
out of the mass of Discourses which I have delivered 
to you, and I beg leave to present them to you, as an 
expression of that interest in the true and vital prosperity 
of Religion among you, which neither time nor distance, 
nor parting oceans nor foreign climes, nor any thing else, I 
trust, can weaken. You will observe, that although it is a 
volume of Discourses on Human Life, it is scarcely a Series. 
The discourses were written without any original intention 
of making a series, and mostly without any reference to 
each other ; and I may therefore need the public indulgence 
for the occasional recurrence of the same topics — of the 
same ideas — possibly of the same expressions. Such as the 
Volume is, I commit it to you, in grateful remembrance of 
those hours in the sanctuary, where they have been the 
subject of our common meditations. 

Bidding you an affectionate farewell for a season, I am 
your friend and servant, 

ORVILLE DEWEY. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



I. On the Moral Significance of Life. . . 5 

II. That every thing in Life is Moral. . 20 

III. Life considered as an Argument for 

Faith and Virtue. . . . . 38 

IV. Life is, what we make it 54 

V. On Inequality in the Lot of Life. . 70 

VI. On the Miseries of Life 85 

VII. On the School of Life ICO 

VIII. On the Value of Life. . . . .115 
IX. Life's Consolation in View of Death. . 180 

X. The Problem of Life resolved in the 

Life of Christ 145 

XI. On the Shortness of Life. . . . 160 
XII. Reflections at the Close of Day. . . 174 

XIII. Religion considered as the great Senti- 

ment of Life 186 

XIV. On the Religion of Life 201 

XV. XVI. XVII. On the Identity of Religion 

with Goodness, and with a Good Life. 223, 

245, 269 

XVIII. On the Call of Humanity, and the An- 
swer to it 284 



* 



DISCOURSE I. 



ON THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



JOB IV. 12 — 16. NOW A THING WAS SECRETLY BROUGHT TO 
ME, AND MINE EAR RECEIVED A LITTLE THEREOF. In THOUGHTS 
FROM THE VISIONS OF THE NIGHT, WHEN DEEP SLEEP FALLETH 
ON MEN ; FEAR CAME UPON ME, AND TREMBLING WHICH MADE 
ALL MY BONES TO SHAKE. THEN A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE MY 
FACE, AND THE HAIR OF MY FLESH STOOD UP. It STOOD STILL ; 
BUT I COULD NOT DISCERN THE FORM THEREOF ; AN IMAGE WAS 
BEFORE MINE EYES J THERE WAS SILENCE ; AND I HEARD A 
VOICE. 

Human life to many, is like the vision of Eliphaz. 
Dim and shadowy vails hang round its awful revelations. 
Teachings there are to man, in solemn and silent hours, in 
thoughts from the visions of the night, in vague impres- 
sions and unshaped reveries ; but, on this very account, 
they fail to be interpreted and understood. There is 
much teaching ; but there is also much unbelief. 

There is a skepticism, indeed, about the entire moral 
significance of life, which I propose, in this discourse, to 
examine. It is a skepticism — sometimes taking the form 
of philosophy, sometimes of misanthropy and scorn, and 

1 



6 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



sometimes of heavy and hard-bound worldliness — which 
denies that life has any lofty, spiritual import : which 
resolves all into a series of toils and trifles and vanities, 
or of gross and palpable pursuits and acquisitions. It is 
a skepticism, not about creeds, not about Christianity — 
it lies farther back — lies far deeper ; it is a skepticism 
about the very meaning and intent of our whole existence. 

This skepticism I propose to meet ; and for this pur- 
pose, I propose to see what argument can be extracted 
out of the very grounds on which it founds itself. 

The pertinency of my text to my purpose, as I have 
already intimated, lies in this : there is much of deep im- 
port in this life* like that which Eliphaz saw in the visions 
of the night — not clear, not palpable, or at least not usu- 
ally recognised and made familiar ; but it cometh, as it 
were in the night, when deep sleep falleth on men ; it 
cometh in the still and solitary hours ; it cometh in the 
time of meditation or of sorrow, or of some awful and over- 
shadowing crisis of life. It is secretly brought to the soul, 
and the ear receiveth a little thereof. It is as a spirit 
that passeth before us, and vanisheth into the night- 
shadow ; or it standeth stlil, but we cannot discern the 
form thereof ; there is an undefined image of truth ; there 
is silence ; and at length there is a voice. 

It is of these unrecognised revelations of our present 
being that I would endeavour to give the interpretation ; 
I would attempt to give them a voice. 

But let us spread out a little in the first place, the 
sceptic's argument. It says, " what is there in human 
existence that accords with your lofty, Christian theory'? 
You may talk about the grandeur of a human life, the 
sublime wants and aspirations of the human soul, the 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



7 



solemn consciousness, amidst all life's cares and toils, of 
an immortal destiny — it is all a beautiful dream ! Look 
over the world's history, and say, what intimations does 
it furnish of that majestic design — the world's salvation? 
Look at any company of toiling and plodding men in the 
country around you ; and what are they thinking of, but 
acres and crops, of labor and the instruments of labor? 
Go into the noisy and crowded manufactory, and what 
is there, but machinery — animate or inanimate — the mind 
as truly girded and harnessed to the work, as the turning- 
lathe or the banded wheel ? Gaze upon the thronged 
streets, or upon holiday crowds, mixing the oaths of the 
profane with the draughts of the intemperate ; and where 
is the spiritual soul that you talk of? Or look at human 
life in a large view of it, and of what is it made up ? 
Trouble and weariness" — you see that it is the cynic's 
complaint — " trouble and weariness ; the disappointment 
of inexperience or the dulness of familiarity ; the frivolity 
of the gay or the unprofitable sadness of the melancholy; 
the heavy ennui of the idle or the plodding care of the 
busy ; the suffering of disease or the wasted energy of 
health ; frailty, its lot, and its doom, death ; a world of 
things wasted, worn out, perishing in the use, tending to 
nothing, and accomplishing nothing ; so complete the 
frivolity of life with many, that they actually think more 
of the fine apparel they shall wear, than of the inward 
spirit, which you say is to inherit the immortal ages !" 

All this, alas ! is too true ; but it is not true to the ex- 
tent nor in the exclusive sense, alledged. That but few 
meditate on their lot as they ought, is perfectly true ; but 
there are impressions and convictions that come into the 
mind through other channels than those of meditation. 



5 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



They come perhaps, like the shadowy vision of Eliphaz, 
in darkness and silence ; vague, indistinct, mysterious 
awful ; or they come in the form of certain, but neglected 
and forgotten truths. And they come, too, from those 
very scenes, in which the eye of the objector can see 
nothing but material grossness or thoughtless levity. 
This is what I shall especially attempt to show. I shall 
not undertake, in this discourse, to go farther ; but I 
believe that I shall not perform a useless service to the 
true faith of our being, if I may be able, in some measure 
to unveil and bring to light, those secret intimations 
which are often smothered, indeed, but which from time 
to time, are flashing out from the cloud of human cares 
and pursuits. 

44 Man," it is said, 44 is bound up in materialism, im- 
prisoned by the senses, limited to the gross and palpable ; 
far-reaching thougths, soaring aspirations, are found in es- 
says and speculations about him rather than in his own ex- 
perience ; they are in books rather than in brick-yards and 
ploughed fields and tumultuous marts." 

What stupendous revelations are cloaked and almost 
hidden by familiarity ! This very category of skepticism 
— what is it, but the blind admission of the sublimest truth? 
A man is recognized as standing amidst this palpable cloud 
of care and labor — enclosed, it is said, shut up in sense 
and matter— but still a man! A dungeon is this world, if 
you please so to represent it ; but in this dungeon, is a pri- 
soner — moaning, sorrowing, sighing to be free. A wild- 
erness world it is, in the thought of many; but one is 
struggling through this wilderness, who imparts to it a 
loftier grandeur than its own ; his articulate voice, his 
breathed prayer, or his shout amidst the dim solitudes — nay 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



9 



the very sound of his axe in the forest depths — is sublimer 
than all the solemn symphonies of autumn winds sweeping 
through its majestic aisles. 

Grant that matter and sense are man's teachers; and 
consider these teachings in their very humblest form, in 
their very lowest grade — what they teach perforce, and in 
spite of man's will. What are they? Materialism itself 
suggests to man the thought of an immaterial principle. 
The senses awaken within him the consciousness of a 
soul. Of a soul, I say; and what is that? Oh ! the very 
word, soul, is itself soiled by a common use, till we know 
not what it means. So that this universal endowment of 
humanity — this dread endowment, by which infinity, eter- 
nity, nay and divinity belong to its innate and inmost 
conceptions, can beat once admitted and almost overlooked, 
in the account of human existence. 

In man the humblest instruments reveal the loftiest 
energies. This is not enthusiasm, but philosophy. The 
modern French philosophy has the merit of having dis- 
tinctly unfolded this principle ; that all our mental per- 
ceptions suggest their opposites — the finite, the infinite : 
the seen, the unseen ; time, eternity ; creation, a God. 
The child that has tried his eye upon surrounding objects, 
soon learns to send his thought through the boundless air, 
and to embrace the idea of infinite space. The being that 
is conscious of having lived a certain time, comes to enter- 
tain as correlative to that consciousness, the conception 
of eternity. These are among the fundamental facts of all 
human experience. Such, to a man, in distinction from an 
animal, is the instrumentality of his very senses. As with 
a small telescope, a few feet in length and breadth, man 
learns to survey heavens beyond heavens, almost infinite ; 
*1 



10 THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



so with the aid of limited senses and faculties does he rise 
to the conception of what is beyond all visible heavens, 
beyond all conceivable time, beyond all imagined power, 
beauty and glory. Such is a human life. Man stands 
before us, visibly confined within the narrowest compass ; 
and yet from this humble frame, stream out, on every side, 
the rays of thought, to infinity, to eternity, to omnipotence, 
to boundless grandeur and goodness. Let him who will, 
account this existence to be nothing but vanity and dust. 
I must be allowed on better grounds, to look upon it, as 
that, in whose presence all the visible majesty of worlds 
and suns and systems sink to nothing. Systems and suns 
and worlds are all comprehended in a single thought of 
this being, whom we do not yet know. 

But let us pass from these primary convictions which 
are suggested by matter and sense, to those spheres of 
human life, where many can see nothing but weary labor, 
or triflng pleasure, or heavy ennui. 

Labor, then — what is it, and what doth it mean? Its 
fervid brow, its toiling hand, its weary step — what do they 
mean 1 It was in the power of God to provide for us 
as he has provided for the beasts of the field and the 
fowls of heaven, so that human hands should neither 
toil nor spin. He who appointed the high hills as a 
refuge for the wild goats and the rocks for the conies, 
might as easily have caused marble cities, and hamlets 
of enduring granite, to have been productions of nature's 
grand masonry. In secret forges and by eternal fires, 
might every instrument of convenience and elegance 
have been fashioned ; the winds might have woven soft 
fabrics upon every tree, and a table of abundance might 
have been spread in every wilderness and by every sea- 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 11 



shore. For the animal races it is spread. Why is it 
not for man ? Why is it especially ordained as the lot of 
man, that in the sweat of his brow he shall eat his bread 1 
Oh ! sirs, it hath a meaning. The curse, so much 
dreaded in the primeval innocence and freedom of na- 
ture, falls not causeless on the earth. Labor is a more 
beneficent ministration than man's ignorance compre- 
hends, or. his complainings will admit. It is not mere 
blind drudgery even when its end is hidden from him. 
It is all a training, it is all a discipline — a developement 
of energies, a nurse of virtues, a school of improve- 
ment. From the poor boy that gathers a few sticks for 
his mother's hearth, to the strong man who fells the 
forest oak, every human toiler, with every weary step 
and every urgent task, is obeying a wisdom far above 
his own wisdom, and is fulfilling a design far beyond his 
own design — his own supply, accumulation, or another's 
wealth, luxury or splendor. 

But now let us turn to an opposite scene of life. I mean 
pleasure and dissipation. Is this all mere frivolity — a 
scene that suggests no meaning beyond its superficial 
aspects? Nay, my friends, what significance is there in 
unsatisfying pleasure ? What a serious thing is the reck- 
less gaity of a bad man ? What a picture, almost to move our 
awe, does vice present to us? The desperate attempt to 
escape from the ennui of an unfurnished and unsatisfied 
mind ; the blind and headlong impulse of the soul to 
quench its maddening thirst for happiness in the burning 
draughts of pleasure ; the deep consciousness which soon 
arises of guilt and infamy ; the sad adieu to honor and good 
fame ; the shedding of silent and bitter tears ; the flush of 
the heart's agony over the pale and haggard brow ; the 



12 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



last determined and dread sacrifice of the soul and of 
heaven, to one demoniac passion — what serious things are 
these? What signatures upon the soul, to show its higher 
nature ? What a fearful hand-writing upon the walls that 
surround the deeds of darkness, duplicity and sensual 
crime? The holy altar of religion hath no seriousness 
about it, deeper, or I had almost said, more awful, than that 
settles down upon the gaming table, or broods oftentimes 
over the haunts of corrupting indulgence. At that altar, 
indeed, is teaching ; words, words are uttered here ; instruc- 
tion, cold instruction, alas ! it may be, is delivered in conse- 
crated walls ; but if the haunts of evil could be unveiled, 
if the covering could be taken off from guilty hearts, if 
every sharp pang and every lingering regret of the vitiated 
mind, could send forth its moanings and sighs into the great 
hearing of the world, the world would stand aghast at that 
dread teaching. 

But besides the weariness of toil and the frivolity of 
pleasure, there is another state of life that is thought to 
teach nothing, and that is ennui ; a state of leisure, attend- 
ed with moody reveries. The hurry of pursuit is over, for 
the time; the illusions of pleasure have vanished; and the 
man sits down in the solitariness of meditation ; and "weary, 
flat, stale and unprofitable, appear to him all the uses of 
this life." It seems to him, as I once heard ittouchingly 
expressed even by a child, " as if every thing was nothing." 
This has been the occasional mood of many lofty minds, 
and has often been expressed in our literature. 

"Life's little stage, (says one) is a small eminence, 
Inch high above the grave ; that home of man, 
Where dwells the multitude ; we gaze around; 
We read their monuments ; we sigh ; and while 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



13 



We sigh, we sink ; and are what we deplored $ 
Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot ! " 
" To-morrow," says our great dramatist, 

" and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death. ****** 
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more ; it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing." 

But bound up with this poor, frail life, is the mighty 
thought that spurns the narrow span of all visible exist- 
ence. Out of this nothing, springs a something — a sig- 
nificant intimation, a dread revelation of the awful powers 
that lie wrapped up in human existence. Nothing more 
reveals the majestic import of life than this ennui, this 
heart-sinking sense of the vanity of all present acquisitions 
and attainments. " Man's misery," it has been well said, 
"comes of his greatness." The sphere of life appears 
small, the ordinary circle of its avocations, narrow and 
confined, the common routine of its cares insipid and un- 
satisfactory — why? Because he who walks therein de- 
mands a boundless range of objects. Why does the body 
seem to imprison the soul ? Because the soul asks for free- 
dom ; because it looks forth from the narrow and grated 
windows of sense upon the wide and immeasurable crea- 
tion ; because it knows that around and beyond it, lie out- 
stretched the infinite and the everlasting paths. 

1 have now considered some of those views of life 
which are brought forward as objections against our 



14 THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



christian theory of its greatness. My purpose in this 
discourse is not to penetrate into the wisdom of iis deeper 
relations, but to confine myself to its humblest aspects, 
and to things that are known and acknowledged to be 
matters of fact. 

With this view, I proceed to observe in the last place, 
that every thing in this life bears traits that may well 
stir our minds to admiration and wonder. 

How mysterious is the connection of mind with mat- 
ter ; of the act of my will with the motion of my hand ; 
this wonderful telegraphic communication between the 
brain and every part of the body ! We talk of nerves ; 
but how knoweth the nerve in my finger, of the will that 
moves it ? We talk of the will : but what is it, and how 
does its commanding act originate ] It is all mystery. 
Within this folding veil of flesh, within these dark chan- 
nels, every instant's action is a history of miracles. 
Every familiar step is more than a story in a land of 
enchantment. Were the marble statue before us, sud- 
denly endowed with that self-moving power, it would 
not be intrinsically more wonderful than is the action of 
every being around us. 

The human face is itself a w r onder. I do not mean 
in its beauty, nor in its power of expression ; but in its 
variety and its individuality. What is the problem that 
is here solved 1 Suppose it were stated thus : given, a 
space nine inches long and six inches broad ; the form 
essentially the same, the features the same, the colors 
the same ; required, unnumbered hundreds of millions 
of countenances so entirely different, as, with some rare 
exceptions, to be completely and easily distinguishable. 
W r ould not the whole mechanical ingenuity of the world 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



15 



be thrown into utter despair of approaching any way 
towards such a result? And yet it is completely achiev- 
ed in the human countenance. Yes, the familiar faces 
that are around us bear mysteries and marvels in every 
look . 

Again, the house thou dwellest in — that familiar 
abode — what holds it together, and secures it on its 
firm foundation ? Joint to joint, beam to beam, every 
post to its socket, is swathed and fastened by the mighty 
bands that hold ten thousand worlds in their orbits. 
This is no phantasm of the imagination ; it is the philo- 
sophical fact. All actual motion, and all seeming rest, 
are determined by unnumbered, most nicely balanced, 
and at the same time, immeasurable influences and at- 
tractions. Universal harmony springs from infinite com- 
plication. And therefore, every step thou takest in thy 
dwelling — still I only repeat what philosophers have 
proved — the momentum of every step, I say, contributes 
its part to the order of the universe. 

What then is a life, conscious of these stupendous rela- 
tions, and what are its humblest dwellings? If you lived 
in a palace that covered an hundred miles of territory, 
and if the stamping of your foot could convey an order to 
its farthest limits, you would feel that that, indeed, was 
power and grandeur. But you live in a system of things, 
you dw T ell in a palace, whose dome is spread out in the 
boundless skies, whose lights are hung in the wide arches 
of heaven, whose foundations are longer far than the 
earth and broader far than the sea, and you are connected 
by ties of thought, and even of matter, with its whole 
boundless extent. If your earthly dwelling, your house 
of life, were lifted up and borne visibly among the stars, 



16 THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



guarded with power and clothed with light, you would 
feel that that was a sublime fortune for any being to enjoy. 
To ride in a royal chariot would be a small thing com- 
pared with that. But you are borne onward among the 
celestial spheres ; rolling worlds are around you ; bright, 
starry abodes fill all the coasts and skies of heaven ; you 
are borne and kept by powers — silent and unperceived 
indeed — but real and boundless as the immeasurable 
universe. 

The infinite, we allow is mysterious ; but not less so, 
in truth, is the finite and the small. It is said that man 
cannot comprehend infinity. It is true, and yet it is 
falsely said in one respect. The declaration that we 
cannot understand infinity, usually conveys the implica- 
tion that we can comprehend that which is the opposite 
of infinity, that is, the little scene around us. But the 
humblest object beneath our eye as completely defies 
our scrutiny, as the economy of the most distant world. 
Every spire of grass, of which the scythe mows down 
millions in an hour, holds within it secrets, which no hu- 
man penetration ever fathomed. Examine it with the 
microscope, and you shall find a beautiful organization ; 
channels for the vital juices to flow in ; some to nourish 
the stalk ; others, to provide for the flower and prepare 
the seed ; other instruments still, to secrete the nutriment 
that flows up from the soil, and to deposit and incorporate 
it with the plant ; and altogether, a mechanism more 
curious than any, perhaps, ever formed by the ingenuity 
of man. And yet there are questions here, which the 
profoundest philosopher cannot answer. "What is the 
principle of life, — without which, though the whole or- 
ganization remains, the plant dies? And what is that 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



17 



wonderful power of secretion ] No man can tell. There 
are inscrutable mysteries, wrapped up in the foldings of 
that humble spire of grass. 

Sit down now, and take thy pen, and spread out thine 
account, as some writers have done, of the insignificance 
of human life. But wilt thou pause a little and tell me 
first, how that pen was formed wherewith thou art writing, 
and that table whereon thy tablets are laid 1 Thou canst 
tell neither. Wilt thou not pause then, when the very 
instruments thou art using, should startle thee into 
astonishment 1 Lay thine hand where thou wilt and 
thou layest it on the hiding bosom of mystery. Step 
where thou wilt, and thou dost tread upon a land of won- 
der. No fabled land of enchantment ever was filled with 
such startling tokens. So fraught are all things with this 
moral significance that nothing can refuse its behest. 
The furrows of the field, the clods of the valley, the dull 
beaten path, the insensible rock, are trod over and in 
every direction, with this hand-writing, more significant 
and sublime than all the beetling ruins and all the buried 
cities, that past generations have left upon the earth. It 
is the hand-writing of the Almighty ! 

In fine, the history of the humblest human life is a tale 
of marvels. There is no dull or unmeaning thing in 
existence, did we but understand it ; there is not one of 
our employments, no, nor one of our states of mind, but 
is, could we interpret it, as significant — not as instructive, 
but as significant as holy writ. Experience, sensation, 
feeling, suffering, rejoicing — what a world of meaning and 
of wonder lies in the modes and changes and smugglings 
and soarings of the life in which these are bound up. If 
it were but new, if we had been cast upon " this shore of 
2 



18 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 



being" without those intervening steps of childhood that 
have now made it familiar ground, how had we been 
wrapt in astonishment, at every thing around, and every 
thing within us ! 

I have endeavoured in the present discourse — perhaps 
in vain — to touch this sense of wonder : to arouse atten- 
tion to the startling and awful intimations, to the striking 
and monitory lessons and warnings of our present exist- 
ence. And if some of the topics and suggestions of my 
discourse have been vague and shadowy, yet I am ready 
to say — better to be startled by the shadows of truth, than 
to sleep beneath its noontide ray : better to be aroused 
by the visions of a dream, than to slumber on in profound 
unconsciousness of all the signs and wonders of our 
being. Oh ! that I couid tear off, this dreadful common- 
place ot life, and show you what it is. There would be 
no want then, of entertainment or excitement, no need of 
journeys or shows or tales to interest us ; the every-day 
world would be more than theatres or spectacles ; and 
life all-piercing, all-spiritual, would be more than the most 
vivid dream of romance — how much more than the most 
eager pursuit of pleasure or profit ! 

My Brethren, there is a vision like that of Eliphaz, 
stealing upon us, if we would mark it, through the vails of 
every evening's shadows, or coming in the morning with 
the mysterious revival of thought and consciousness ; 
there is a message whispering in the stirred leaves, or 
starting beneath the clods of the field, in the life that is 
everywhere bursting from its bosom. Every thing around 
us images a spiritual life — all forms, modes, processes, 
changes, though we discern them not. Our great busi- 
ness with life is so to read the book of its teaching, — to 



THE MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF LIFE. 19 



find that life is not the doing of drudgeries, but the hearing 
of oracles ! The old mythology is but a leaf in that book, 
for it peopled the world with spiritual natures. Many 
leaved science still spreads before us the same tale of 
wonder. Spiritual meditation, interpreting experience, 
and above all, the life of Jesus, v/ill lead us still farther 
into the heart and soul and the innermost life of all things. 
It is but a child's life to pause and rest upon outward 
things, though we call them wealth and splendor. It is 
to feed ourselves with husks, instead of sustaining food. 
It is to grasp the semblance and to lose the secret and 
soul of existence. It is as if a pupil should gaze all day 
upon the covers of his book and open it not, and learn 
nothing. It is indeed that awful alternative which is put 
by Jesus himself — to gain the world — though it be the 
whole world — and to lose our own soul. 



DISCOURSE II. 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



JOB VII. 17 — 18. What is man that thou shouldst 

MAGNIFY HIM, AND SET THINE HEART UPON HIM ; AND 
THAT THOU SHOULDST VISIT HIM EVERT MORNING, AND 
TRY HIM EVERY MOMENT? 

That we are tried every moment — is the clause of the 
text, to which I wish in this discourse, to direct your medi- 
tation. By which, in the sense of the passage before us, 
is not meant that we are continually afflicted, but that we 
are constantly proved and put to the test ; that every thing 
which befalls us, in the course of life and of every day, 
bears upon us, in the character of a spiritual discipline, a 
trial of our temper and disposition ; that every thing deve- 
lopes in us feelings that are either right or wrong. I have 
spoken in my last discourse of the moral significance of 
life. I propose to speak in this, of the possible moral use 
and of the inevitable moral effect of every thing in life. 
My theme in short, in this — that every thing in life is 
moral — or spiritual. 

There is no conviction which is at once more rare, and 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 21 



more needful for our improvement, than this. If the lang- 
uage of Job's discontent and despair in the chapter from 
which our text is taken, is not familiar to many, yet to 
very many, life appears at least mechanical and dull. It 
is not such, in fact, but it appears such. It appears to be 
mere labor, mere business, mere activity. Or it is mere 
pain or pleasure, mere gain or loss, mere success or dis- 
appointment. These things, if not mechanical, have at 
least, to many minds, nothing spiritual in them. And not 
a few pass through the most important transactions, 
through the most momentous eras of their lives, and never 
think of them in their highest and most interesting character. 
The pervading morality, the grand spiritual import of this 
earthly scene, seldom strickes their minds, or touches their 
hearts. And if they think of ever becoming religious, they 
expect to be so only through retirement from this scene, 
or, at least, through teachings and influences and pro- 
cesses far removed from the course of their daily lives. 

Eut now I say, in contradiction to this, that every thing 
in life, is spiritual. What is man, says Job, that thou 
visitest him every morning? This question, presents us, 
at the opening of every day, with that view of life, which 
I propose to illustrate. That conscious existence which, 
in the morning, you recover from the embraces of sleep — 
what a testimony is it to the power and beneficence of 
God ? What a teacher is it, of all devout and reverent 
thoughts ? You laid yourself down and slept. You lay, 
unconscious, helpless, dead to all the purposes of life, and 
unable by any power of your own ever to awake. From 
that sleep, from that unconsciousness, from that image of 
death, God has called you to a new life — he has restored 
to you the gift of existence. And now what meets you on 
*2 



22 THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



this threshold of renewed life 1 Not bright sunbeams alone, 
but God's mercies visit you in every beaming ray and 
every beaming thought, and call for gratitude ; and you 
can neither acknowledge nor resist the call without a 
moral result. That result may come upon you, sooner 
than you expect. If you rise from your bed, with a mind 
undevout, ungrateful, self-indulgent, selfish, something in 
your very preparations for the day, something that may 
happen in a matter slight as that of the toilet, may disturb 
your serenity and cloud your day at the beginning. You 
may have thought that it was only the prayer of the morn- 
ing that had any religion, any thing spiritual in it. But 
I say that there is not an article in your wardrobe, there is 
not an instrument of daily convenience to you, however 
minute or otherwise indifferent, but it has a power so far 
moral, that a little disarray or disorder in it, may produce 
in you a temper of mind, ay a moral state, of the most 
serious character. You may not be conscious of this ; that 
is, you may not be distinctly sensible of it, and yet it may 
be none the less true. We are told that the earth, and 
every substance around us, is full of the electric fluid ; but 
we do not constantly perceive it. A little friction, how- 
ever, developes it, and it sends out a hasty spark. And so 
in the moral world — a slight chafing, a single turn of some 
wheel in the social machinery — and there comes, like the 
electric spark, a flashing glance of the eye, a hasty word, 
perhaps a muttered oath — that sounds ominous and awful 
as the tone of distant thunder ! What is it that the little 
machinery of the electrical operator developes ? It is the 
same power, that gathering its tremendous forces, rolls 
through the firmament, and rends the mountains in its 
might. And just as true is it, that the little round of our 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 23 



daily cares and occupations, the humble mechanism of 
daily life, bears witness to that moral power, which, only 
extended, exalted, enthroned above, is the dread and awful 
majesty of the heavens. 

But let us return to our proposition. Every thing is 
moral, and therefore, as we have said, great and majestic ; 
but let us for a few moments confine ourselves to the simple 
consideration, that every thing in its bearings and influen- 
ces is moral. 

All times and seasons are moral : the serene and bright 
morning — we have said—that wakening of all nature to 
life ; that silence of the early dawn, as it were the silence 
of expectation ! that freshening glow, that new inspiration 
of life, as if it came from the breath of heaven ; but the holy 
eventide also, — its cooling breeze, its falling shade, its 
hushed and sober hour; the sultry noontide, too, and the 
solemn midnight; and spring-time and chastening autumn ; 
and summer that unbars our gates and carries us forth 
amidst the ever-renewed wonders of the world : and win- 
ter that gathers us around the evening hearth : all these 
as they pass, touch by turns the springs of the spiritual life 
in us, and are conducting that life to good or evil. The 
very passing of time, without any reference now to its 
seasons, developes in us much that is moral. For what is 
the passing of time, swifter or slower — what are its ling- 
ering and its hasting, but indications — but expressions often, 
of the state of our own minds ; it hastes often, because we 
are wisely and well employed ; it lingers, it hangs heavily 
upon us, because our minds are unfurnished, unenlight- 
ened, unoccupied with good thoughts, with the fruitful 
themes of virtue ; or because we have lost almost all vir- 
tue in unreasonable and outrageous impatience. Yes, the 



24 THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 

idle watch-hand often points to something within us; the 
very dial-shadow falls upon the conscience ! 

The course of time on earth is marked by changes of 
heat and cold, storm and sunshine ; all this too is moral. 
The weather, — dull theme of comment as it is often found 
— is to be regarded with no indifference as a moral cause. 
For, does it not produce unreasonable anxieties, or abso- 
lutely sinful complainings ? Have none who hear me 
ever had reason to be shocked to find themselves angry 
with the elements ; vexed with chafing heat, or piercing 
cold, or the buffeting storm ; and ready, when encounter- 
ing nature's resistance, almost to return buffet for buffet ? 

But let us turn from the course of inanimate nature, to 
matters in which our own agency is more distinct and 
visible. 

Go with me to any farm-house in the land, and let us 
see what is passing there, and what in the lofty and spi- 
ritual import of its humble history. It is the theatre of 
strenuous toils and besetting cares. Within doors is work 
to be done ; that work which is proverbially " never 
done :" and without, the soil is to be tilled, the weeds and 
brambles are to be rooted up, fences are to be builded — 
of wood or stone — and to be kept in repair ; and all this 
is to be done with tools und instruments that are not per- 
fect, but must be continually mended ; the axe and the 
scythe grow dull with use; the plough and the harrow 
are sometimes broken ; the animals which man brings in 
to assist his labors, have no instincts to make them do the 
very thing he wishes; they must be trained to the yoke 
and the collar, with much pains and some danger. 

Now the evil in all this, is not the task that is to be per- 
formed, but the grand mistake that is made about the spi- 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



25 



ritual purpose and character of that task. Most men look 
upon such a state of life as mere labor, if not vexation ; 
and many regard it as a state of inferiority and almost of 
degradation. They must work, in order to obtain suste- 
nance, and that is all they know about this great dispensa- 
tion of labor. But why did not the Almighty cast man's 
lot beneath the quiet shades and amid embosoming groves 
and hills, with no such task to perform; with nothing to 
do, but to rise up and eat, and to lie down and rest? Why 
did he ordain that work should be done, in all the dwell- 
ings of life, and upon every productive field, and in every 
busy city and on every ocean wave? Because — to go 
back to the original reason — it pleased God to give man 
a nature destined to higher ends than indolent repose and 
irresponsible indulgence. And because, in the next place, 
for developing the energies of such a nature, work was 
the proper element. I am but repeating perhaps, what I 
have said before to you, but I feel that in taking this posi- 
tion, I am standing upon one of the great moral land- 
marks which ought to guide the course of all mankind ; 
but on which, seen through a mist or not seen at all, the 
moral fortunes of millions are fatally wrecked. Could 
the toiling world but see that the scene of their daily life 
is all spiritual, that the very implements of their toil, or 
the fabrics they weave, or the merchandize they barter, 
were all designed for spiritual ends; what a sphere of the 
noblest improvement might their daily lot then be? 
What a revolution might this single truth produce in the 
condition and character of the whole world ? But now, 
for a man to gird himself for spiritual improvement — 
what is it ? Why, with most men, it is to cast off the 
soiled and dusty garments of toil — the slough of mere 



26 THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



worldly drudgery as they are called — and to put on the 
Sunday suit and go to church, or to sit down and read a 
book. Good employments are these, but one special de- 
sign of them is, to prepare the mind for the action of life. 
We are to hear and read, we are to meditate and pray, 
partly at least, for this end — that we may act well. The 
action of life is the great field for spiritual improvement. 
There is not one task of industry or business, whether 
in field or forest, on the wharf or the exchange, but it 
has spiritual ends. There is not one of the cares or 
crosses of our daily labor, but it was especially ordained, 
to nurture in us patience, calmness, gentleness, disinterest- 
edness, magnanimity. Nor is there one tool or implement 
of toil, but it is a part of the great spiritual instrumentality. 

Every thing in life, then, I repeat, is essentially spirit- 
ual. Every relation in life is so. The relations of parent, 
child, brother, sister, friend, associate, husband, wife, are 
throughout every living tie and thrilling nerve that binds 
them together, moral. They cannot subsist a day nor 
an hour, without putting the mind to a trial of its truth 
fidelity, forbearance, disinterestedness. 

But let us take the case of the parent — of the young 
mother, for instance. She may have passed her youth in 
much thoughtlessness ; in a round of fashionable engage- 
ments that have left her little time to think, even when 
approaching the most solemn relationships of life ; and 
she may have become a wife and mother, before she has 
settled, or even meditated, any reasonable plan or princi- 
ple of life and of duty. Now, I am not about to say 
that the new charge committed to her hands, brings with 
it many obvious duties and strong obligations; but I de- 
sire you to observe how, what is moral in the case, is 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 27 

thrust upon her ; as if a hand were suddenly stretched 
forth into her path, with movement and gesture that bade 
her pause and consider. For, what is in that path ? It 
is a being, though but a little child, in whom is suddenly- 
revealed that awful attribute, the indomitable will. That 
will, perhaps, utters itself in a scream of passion; it 
stamps upon the ground in a fury of anger ; it vents 
itself in tears ; or flashes in lightning from the eye. Yes, 
the being that a few days before was an unconscious and 
helpless infant in her arms, has all at once put on the 
terrific attribute of will; and its astonished guardian stands 
aghast, as if an uncaged lion had broken upon her path. 
What, then, is in that path? I answer, it is what no- 
thing but moral firmness can fairly meet, and nothing but 
the gentleness and patience of piety and prayer can ever 
successfully and wisely manage, control and subdue ! And 
I say again, that if moral action, if religious considera- 
tion was never before awakened, that very epoch, that 
very hour, might reasonably be the commencement, with 
her, of a complete and spiritual regeneration ! For no- 
thing less than actual regeneration frcm a thoughtless, 
self-indulgent life, ever did, or ever can, prepare any one 
thoroughly and faithfully to discharge the duties of a 
parent. 

Again, every thing in the condition of life is moral; 
wealth, the means of lavish expense, or the argument for 
avaricious hoarding ; poverty, the task-master that exacts 
labor, or inflicts self-denial ; mediocrity of means, the ne- 
cessity, the vexatious necessity, as some will consider it t 
of attending to the little items of expense, or the mortify- 
ing inferiority to others, in the splendor of equipages and 
establishments ; trade, the splendid success, the fortunate 



2S THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



speculation, the disappointed hope, the satisfactory en* 
dorsement, the dishonored note, the sharp bargain — all 
moral; the professions and callings of life, some making 
their incumbents unreasonably proud, others making their 
equally useful agents, unreasonably humble. When we 
look upon things in this light, how moral is every thing 
around us ! This great city is one extended scene of 
moral action. There is not a blow struck in it, but has a 
purpose, and a purpose ultimately good or bad, and there- 
fore moral. There is not an action performed but it has 
a motive ; and motives are the very sphere of morality. 
These equipages in our streets, these houses and their fur- 
niture — what symbols are they of what is moral, and how 
are they, in a thousand ways, ministering to right or 
wrong feeling? You may have thought that you were 
to receive the teachings of morality and religion only by 
resorting to church ; but take your seat in your well-fur- 
nished, perhaps, splendid apartment, and there is not an 
object around you but may minister to the good or bad 
state of your mind. It is a little empire of which your 
mind is the creator. From many a trade and occupation 
and art in life, you have gathered contributions to its 
comfort or splendor. The forest, the field, the ore-bed, 
the ocean — all elements, fire, water, earth, air, have yielded 
their supplies to form this dwelling-place, this palace of 
your thoughts. Furniture, whose materials came from 
beyond the sea ; polished marbles wrought from the 
quarries of Italy ; carpets from the looms of England ; 
the luxurious couch, and the shaded evening lamp — of 
what are all these the symbols ? What emotions do they 
awaken in you ? Be they emotions of pride, or be they 
emotions of gratitude ; be they thoughts of self-indulgence 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 29 

only, or thoughts, merciful thoughts, of the thousands 
who are destitute of all the comforts of life — what a 
moral complexion do they bear ? 

Nay, and this spiritual dispensation of life may press 
down upon a man in a way he little thinks of. For how 
possible is it, that amidst boundless wealth, in its most 
gorgeous mansion, and surrounded by every thing that 
can minister to pleasure, a family may be more miserable 
than the poorest family in the land ! — the children, spoiled 
by indulgence, made vain and proud by their over-esti- 
mated advantages, made peevish, impatient, and imbecile, 
by perpetual dependence on others, and not half so happy 
even, as thousands of children who are half clad and un- 
shod, and who never knew what it was to give a com- 
mand ; their elders, injured or ruined in constitution by 
luxuries, enfeebled and dulled in mind by the hard tasks 
that are imposed on the functions of the body, and yet 
absurdly puffed up with pride that they can live splen- 
didly and fare sumptuously every day — how possible is it, 
I repeat, that coarse fare and a pallet of straw, may turn 
out to be better than the bed of down, and the loaded ta- 
ble, and the cellar of choice wines ! Ay, the loaded ta- 
ble, what a long moral account, accumulating day by 
day, through years, may have been written upon that ta- 
ble ; and payment, perchance, must be made on the couch 
of agony ! 

Again, society is throughout, a moral scene. I cannot 
enlarge upon this point as it would be easy to do, but 
must content myself with one or two observations. Con- 
versation, for instance, is full of inward trials and exigen- 
cies. It is impossible that imperfect minds should com- 
mune together without a constant trial of their tempers 

3 



30 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



and virtues. Though of the most friendly and kindred 
spirit, they will have different opinions, or varying moods ; 
one will be quicker or slower of apprehension than the 
other on some point ; one will think the other wrong, 
and the other will feel as if it were unkindly or unchari- 
tably construed ; and there will be dispute, and perti- 
nacity, and implication, and retort, and defence, and com- 
plaint ; and well, if there are not sarcasm and anger. 
And well, if these harsh sounds do not invade the sanctu- 
ary of home ! Well, if they do not bring disturbance to 
the social board, and discord amidst the voices of music 
and song ! 

Is not every thing, then, in social life, moral ? — really 
a matter of religion — a trial of conscience 1 You enter 
your dwelling. The first thing that you see — and it may 
be a very slight thing — may call upon you for an act of 
self-command. The thing may not be as it should be ; 
but that is not the most material consideration ; that is 
not what most concerns you. The material considera- 
tion is, that your mind may be put out of its proper place, 
that you may not be as you should be. You go from your 
door. The sight of the first man you behold, may call 
for a trial of all your virtues. You enter into the throng 
of society. Every turn of your eye, may present an oc- 
casion for the exercise of your self-respect, your calmness, 
your modesty, your candor, your forgetfulness of self, 
your love of others. You visit the sick, or necessitous. 
Every step may be one of ostentation, or at least of self- 
applause ; or it may be one of true generosity and good- 
ness. You stand amidst the throng of men ; and your 
position has many relations ; you are higher or lower 
than others, or you are an equal and a competitor ; and 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 31 

none of these relations can be wisely sustained without 
the aid of strong religious considerations. Or, your posi- 
tion is fixed and unalterable. You are a parent ; and 
you give a command or make a request. A thoughtful 
observer will perceive the very tone of it to be moral ; 
and a friend may know that it has cost twenty years of 
self-discipline to form that gentle tone ! Or you are a 
child ; and you obey or disobey ; and let me tell you that 
the act, nay the very manner of your act, is so vitally 
good or bad, that it may send a thrill of gladness, or a 
pang, sharp as a sword, to the heart of your parent. Or 
you are a pupil ; and can any act or look be indifferent, 
which by its levity, or negligence, or ill-humor, adds to 
the already trying task of those who spend anxious days 
and nights for you ? 

But I must leave these specifications, which I find in- 
deed cannot well be carried into the requisite detail in 
the pulpit ; but I must leave them also for the sake of 
presenting in close, one or two general reflections on the 
whole subject. 

I observe then, that the consideration of every thing in 
our life, as moral, as spiritual, would impart an unequalled 
interest and dignity to life. 

First, an unequalled interest. 

It is often said that the poet, or the man of genius, is 
alive to a world around him, to aspects of nature and life, 
which others do not perceive. This is not strictly true ; 
for when he describes his impressions he finds a respon- 
sive feeling in the breasts of his readers. The truth is — 
and herein lies much of his power and greatness — that he 
is vividly and distinctly conscious of those things which 
other men feel indeed, but feel so vaguely, that they are 



32 THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



scarcely aware, till told, of them. So it is in spiritual 
things. A world of spiritual objects, and influences, and 
relations, lies around us all. We all vaguely deem it to 
be so ; but what a charmed life — how like to that of ge- 
nius or poetic inspiration — is his, who communes with 
the spiritual scene around him ; who hears the voice of 
the spirit in every sound ; who sees its signs in every 
passing form of things, and feels its impulse, in all action, 
passion, being ! 

" The kingdom of heaven," says our Saviour, " is like 
a treasure hid in a field." There is a treasure in the 
field of life, richer than all its visible wealth ; which 
whoso finds, shall be happier than if he had discovered a 
mine of gold. It is related that the mine of Potosi was 
unveiled, simply by tearing a bush from the mountain 
side. Thus near to us lie the mines of wisdom ; thus 
unsuspected they lie all around us. M The word," saith 
Moses, speaking of this very wisdom. " is very nigh thee." 
There is a secret in the simplest things, a wonder in the 
plainest, a charm in the dullest. The veil that hides all 
this requires but a hand stretched out, to draw it aside. 

We are all naturally seekers of wonders ; we travel 
far to see sights, to look upon the mountain height or 
the rush of waters, to gaze upon galleries of art or the 
majesty of old ruins ; and yet a greater than all these is 
here. The world-wonder is all around us ; the wonder 
of setting suns and evening stars — the wonder of the 
magic spring-time — of tufted bank and blossoming tree ; 
the wonder of the Infinite Divinity, and of his boundless 
revelation. As I stood yesterday and looked upon a 
tree, I observed little jets as of smoke, darting from one 
and another of its bursting buds. Oh ! that the secrets 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 33 

of nature might thus burst forth before us ; that the se- 
cret wisdom of the world might thus be revealed to us ! 
Is there any splendor to be found in distant travels, be- 
yond that which sits its morning throne in the golden 
East ; any dome sublimer than that of heaven ; any 
beauty fairer than that of the verdant and blossoming 
earth ; any place, though invested with all the sanctities 
of old time, like that home which is hushed and folded 
within the embrace of the humblest wall and roof? And 
yet all these — this is the point at which I aim — all these 
are but the symbols of things far greater and higher. All 
this is but the spirits' clothing. In this vesture of time 
is wrapped the immortal nature ; in this brave show of 
circumstance and form, stands revealed the stupendous 
reality. Break forth, earth-bound spirit ! and be, that 
thou art — a living soul — communing with thyself — com- 
muning with God — and thou shalt find thy vision, eter- 
nity — thine abode, infinity — thy home in the bosom of 
all-embracing love ! 

" So build we up the being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking in the soul of things, 
We shall be wise perforce. 

Whate'er we see, 
Whate'er we feel, by agency direct 
Or indirect, shall tend to feed and nurse 
Our faculties, shall fix in calmer seats 
Qf moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
Of love divine, our intellectual soul." 

And thus, in the next place, shall we find that all the 
real dignity and importance that belong to human life, 
belong to every human life ; e, i, to life in every condi- 

*8 



34 THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



tion. It is the right mind, the right apprehension of 
things only, that is wanting, to make the peasant's cottage 
as interesting, as intrinsically glorious, as the prince's pa- 
lace. I wish that this view of life might be taken by us, 
not only because it is the right view, but because it would 
tend effectually to promote human happiness, and espe- 
cially contentment. Most men look upon their employ- 
ments and abodes as common-place and almost as mean. 
The familiar objects around them, appear to them almost 
as vulgar. They feel as if there could be no dignity nor 
charm in acting and living as they are compelled to do. 
The plastered wall, and the plain deal boards, the humble 
table, spread with earthen, or wooden dishes — how poor 
does it all seem to them ! Oh ! could they live in palaces 
of marble, clothed with silken tapestries, and filled with 
gorgeous furniture, and canopies of state — it were some- 
thing. But now, to the spiritual vision, what is it all ? 
The great problem of humanity is wrought out in the 
humblest abodes ; no more than this is done in the high- 
est. A human heart throbs beneath the beggars gabar- 
dine ; it is no more than this, that stirs with its beating, 
the prince's mantle. What is it, I say, that makes life to 
be life indeed — makes all its grandeur and power ? The 
beauty of love, the charm of friendship, the sacredness of 
sorrow, the heroism of patience, the soul-exalting prayer, 
the noble self-sacrifice — these are the priceless treasures 
and glories of humanity ; and are these things of condition? 
On the contrary, are not all places, all scenes, alike 
clothed with the grandeur and charm of virtues like these ? 
And compared with these, what are the gildings, the 
gauds and shows of wealth and splendor ! Nay, compared 
with every man's abode — his sky-dome and earth-dwel- 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 35 

ling — what can any man's abode be ? Thou livest in a 
world of beauty and grandeur. Who liveth in a fairer 
a more magnificent world than thou ? It is a dwelling 
which God hath made for thee ; does that consideration 
deprive it of all its goodliness ? And suppose thou wast 
rich, and wast surrounded with all the gaiety and grandeur 
of wealth. How might they hide from thee, alas ! all the 
spiritual meanings of thy condition ! How might the 
stately wall and the rich ceiling hide heaven from thy 
sight ! Let thine eye be opened to the vision of life, and 
what state then, what mere visible grandeur, can be com- 
pared to them ? It is all but a child's bauble, to the di- 
vine uses of things, the glorious associations, the beatific 
visions that are opened to thee ! God hath thus " magni- 
fied," and to use the strong and figurative language of 
our text, " set his heart" upon the humblest fortunes of 
humanity. 

There are those who, with a kind of noble but mistaken 
aspiration, are asking for a life which shall in its form 
and outward course, be more spiritual and divine than 
that which they are obliged to live. They think that if 
they could devote themselves entirely to what are called 
labors of philanthropy, to visiting the poor and sick, that 
would be well and worthy — and so it would be. They 
think that if it could be inscribed on their tomb-stone, that 
they had visited a million of couches of disease, and. 
carried balm and soothing to them, that would be a glo- 
rious record — and so it would be. But let me tell you, 
that the million occasions will come, — ay, and in the or- 
dinary paths of life, in your homes and by your fire-sides 
— wherein you may act as nobly, as if all your life long, 
you visited beds of sickness and pain. Yes, I say, the 



36 THAT EVERY THING IN LIFE IS MORAL. 



million occasions will come, varying every hour, in which 
you may restrain your passions, subdue your hearts to 
gentleness and patience, resign your own interest for 
another's advantage, speak words of kindness and wisdom, 
raise the fallen and cheer the fainting and sick in spirit, 
and soften and assuage the weariness and bitterness of 
the mortal lot. These cannot indeed be written on your 
tombs, for they are not one series of specific actions, like 
those of what is technically denominated philanthropy. 
But in them I say, you may discharge offices, not less 
gracious to others, nor less glorious for yourselves than 
the self-denials of the far-famed sisters of charity, than the 
labors of Howard or Oberlin, or than the sufferings of the 
martyred host of God's elect. They shall not be written 
on your tombs ; but they are written deep in the hearts of 
men — -of friends, of children, of kindred all around you : 
they are written in the secret book of the great account ! 

How divine a life would this be ! For want of this spi- 
ritual insight, the earth is desolate, and the heavens are 
but a sparkling vault or celestial mechanism. Nothing 
but this spirit of God in us, can " create that new heavens 
and new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness. , ' For 
want of this, life is to many, dull and barren, or trifling, 
uninteresting, unsatisfactory — without sentiment, without 
poetry and philosophy alike, without interpretation or 
meaning or lofty motive. Whirled about by incessant 
change, making an oracle of circumstance and an end of 
vanity, such persons know not why they live. For want 
of this spiritual insight, man degrades himself to the wor- 
ship of condition, and loses the sense of what he is. He 
passes by a grand house, or a blazoned equipage, and 
bows his whole lofty being before them — forgetting that 



THAT EVERY THING IN LIF2 IS MORAL. 37 



he himself, is greater than a house — greater than an equi- 
page — greater than the world. Oh ! to think, that this 
walking majesty of earth should so forget itself, that this 
spiritual power in man, should be frittered away, and dis- 
sipated upon trifles and vanities — how lamentable is it ! 
There is no Gospel for such a being ; for the Gospel lays 
its foundations in the spiritual nature. There is nothing 
for man, but what lies in his spirit — in spiritual insight — in 
spiritual interpretation. Without this, not only is heaven 
nothing, but the world is nothing. The great Apostle 
has resolved it all in few words. " There is no condemna* 
tion to them who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after 
the flesh, but after the spirit — but to all others there is 
condemnation, — sorrow, pain, vanity, death. For to be 
carnally minded is death ; but to be spiritually minded is 
life and peace." 



DISCOURSE III. 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT FOR FAITH 
AND VIRTUE. 



MATTHEW IV. 4. But he answered and said, it is 

WRITTEN THAT MAN SHALL NOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE, 
BUT BY EVERY WORD THAT PROCEEDETH OUT OF THE MOUTH 
OF GOD. 

The necessity to man of something above all the re- 
sources of physical life, is the subject to which, in this dis- 
course, I shall invite your attention. 

In two previous discourses on human life which I have 
addressed to you, I have endeavored to show, in the first 
place and in general, that this life possesses a deep moral 
significance, nothwithstanding all that is said of it, as a 
series of toils, trifles and varieties, and in the next place, 
and in pursuance of the samf > thought, that every thing in 
life is positively moral — not merely that it is morally sig- 
nificant, but that it has a positive moral efficiency for good 
or for evil. And now I say in the third place, that the ar- 
gument for the moral purpose, is clenched by the necessity 
of that purpose, to the well-being of life itself. " Man,"-— 



ARGUMENT FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



39 



says our Saviour, with solemn authority — " shall not live 
by bread alone, but" — by what? how few seem to believe 
in it! — by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth 
of God." 

How few seem to believe in it — how few do believe 
this, in the highest sense — and yet how true is it ! Into 
how large a part even of the most ordinary life, enters a 
certain kind and degree of spirituality ! You cannot do busi- 
ness, without some faith in man — that is in the spiritual 
part of man. You cannot dig in the earth, without a re- 
liance on the unseen result. You cannot step or think or 
reason, without confiding in the inward, the spiritual prin- 
ciples of your nature. All the affections and bonds, and 
hopes and interests of life, centre in the spiritual. Break 
that central bond, and you know that the world would 
rush to chaos. 

But something higher than this indirect recognition is 
demanded in our argument. Let us proceed to take it up 
in form. 

There are two principles then, involved in the moral 
aim, and embracing its whole scope, whose necessity I 
propose now to consider. They are faith and virtue ; the 
convictions, that is to say, on which virtue reposes, and the 
virtue itself. Something above a man's physical life must 
there be to help it — something above it in its faith — some- 
thing beyond it, in its attainment. 

In speaking of faith as necessary to human life, I need 
not here undertake to define its nature ! This will suffi- 
ciently appear as we proceed. What I wish to speak of, 
is, in general, a faith in religion — in God, in spiritual 
truth, and hopes. What I maintain in general, is the in- 
dispensableness to human life of this religious faith. My 



40 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



present purpose is, to offer some distinct and independent 
considerations in support of this faith; and these considera- 
tions I find based, imbedded, deep-founded in human life. 

To illustrate the general character of the view which I 
wish to present, let us make a comparison. Let it be ad- 
mitted then, and believed, on the one hand, that there is a 
God ; let the teachings of Jesus, also, be received — that this 
God is our Father ; that he has a paternal interest in our 
welfare and improvement ; that he has provided the way 
and the means of our salvation from sin and ruin ; that he 
hears our prayers and will help our endeavors ; that he 
has destined us, if faithful, to a future, and blessed and end- 
less life ; and then, how evident is it that, upon this sys- 
tem of faith, we can live calmly, endure patiently, labor 
resolutely, deny ourselves cheerfully, hope steadfastly, and 
11 be conquerors," in the great struggle of life, " yea and 
more than conquerors, through Christ who has loved us! " 
But take away any one of these principles ; and where are 
we? Say that there is no God, or that there is no way 
opened for hope and prayer, and pardon and triumph, or 
that there is no heaven to come, no rest for the weary, no 
blessed land for the sojourner and the pilgrim ; and where 
are we ? and what are we ? What are we, indeed, but 
the sport of chance, and the victims of despair ? What are 
we, but hapless wanderers upon the face of the desolate 
and forsaken earth — surrounded by darkness, struggling 
with obstacles, distracted with doubts, mislead by false 
lights — not merely wanderers who have lost their way, but 
wanderers, alas ! who have no way, no prospect, no home? 
What are we, but doomed, deserted voyagers, upon the 
dark and stormy sea, thrown amidst the baffling waves, 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



41 



without a compass, without a course, with no blessed 
haven in the distance to invite us to its welcome rest? 

What now is the conclusion from this comparison ? It 
is that religious faith is indispensable to the attainment of 
the great ends of life. But that which is necessary to life, 
must have been designed to be a part of it. When you 
study the structure of an animal, when you examine its 
parts, you say "this was designed for food; there must be 
food for this being, somewhere ; neither growth nor life is 
possible without it." And when you examine the structure 
of a human mind and understand its powers and wants, 
you say with equal confidence, " this being was made for 
faith ; there must be something, somewhere, for him to be- 
lieve in; he cannot healthfully grow, he cannot happily 
live, without it." 

The argument which I now urge for faith, let me 
distinctly say, is not that which is suggested by world- 
ly prudence — that religion is a good thing for the 
State, useful to society, necessary for the security of 
property ; and therefore to be received and supported. 
The concession that the great interests of the world 
cannot be sustained without religion, and therefore 
that religion is necessary, is considered by many, I 
fear, as yielding not to reasoning fairly, but to policy. 
This was the view of religion, doubtless, which per- 
vaded the ancient systems of polytheism. It was a 
powerful state engine ; a useful social economy; and 
hence, with multitudes, it was little more than a splen- 
did ritual. It was not a personal thing. It was not 
received as true, but only as expedient. Now, that 
which I maintain is this — not that religion is necessary, 
and therefore respectable ; not that religion is necessa- 
4 



42 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



ry, and therefore to be supported in order that the 
people may be restrained and managed, and held in 
check ; but my argument is, that religion is necessary, 
and therefore true. The indispensableness of religion, 
I hold, is not merely a reason for its being supported, 
but a reason for its being believed in. 

The point maintained, let me now more distinctly 
observe, is this ; that in every kind of existence, in 
every system of things, there are certain primary ele- 
ments or powers, which are essential to its just order 
and true well-being , and that under a wise Provi- 
dence, these elements must be regarded as bearing the 
stamp of divine appointment and authority. Find 
that which is necessary to any being or thing, and you 
find that which was designed to be a part of that being 
or thing. Find that which, in the long run, injures, 
hurts, or hinders ; find that which is fatal to the 
growth, progress or perfection of any being or thing, 
and you find that which does not properly belong to it. 
He who would cultivate a tree, knows that a soil, 
and a certain internal structure, are necessary to that 
end. And if he should, with that end in view, set him- 
self to deprive it of those essential elements of growth, 
his act would be one of perfect fatuity. 

Let us dwell upon this point and the illustration of 
it, a little longer. 

In the human body, we say, food is necessary. 
Stint it, and the body languishes ; cut off the supply, 
and it ceases to exist. So in the human body, the cir- 
culation of the blood is necessary. Interrupt it, and 
the body is diseased ; stop it, and the body dies. How 
truly has our Saviour denominated his doctrine, the 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



43 



very food and life-blood of the soul. " Verily, verily, I 
say unto yon, except ye eat the flesh and drink the 
blood of the Son of Man, ye have no life in you ; 
whoso eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath 
eternal life ;" meaning, according to a figurative and 
well-know use of language at that time, his spirit and 
doctrine. And how manifestly true is it! Cut off 
from any soul all the principles that Jesus taught — the 
faith in a God, in immortality, in virtue, in essential 
rectitude ; and how inevitably will it sink into sin, 
misery, darkness and ruin ! Nay, cut off all sense of 
these truths, and the man sinks at once to the grade of 
the animal. 

Again, in the system of the universe, there is one 
principle that is essential to its order ; the principle of 
gravitation. Sever this bond that holds all worlds and 
systems together, and they would instantly fly into 
wild and boundless chaos. But society, in its great 
relations, is as much the creation of heaven, as the 
system of the universe. Sever then, all the moral 
bonds that hold it together; cut off from it every con- 
viction of truth and integrity — of an authority above 
it, and of a conscience within it ; and society would 
immediately rush to disorder, anarchy and ruin. If 
then, to hold society together and to bind it in happy 
order, religion be as necessary as gravitation is to hold 
together the frame of nature, it follows that religion 
is as really a principle of things as gravitation ; it is 
as certain and true. 

Once more ; animal life has its law — instinct. And 
when we look at the races of animals, and see how in- 
dispensable this law is to their welfare ; when we see 



44 LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



that without this principle, they would inevitably fall 
into misery and destruction, we have no doubt that 
instinct is a heaven-ordained law. Equally necessary 
to man, is some law. What is it ? He has appetites, 
propensities, passions, like the animal ; but he has 
no instincts to control them and keep them safe. What 
law then must he have ? Will it be said that prudence, 
the love of himself, the love of happiness, is sufficient 
to guide him ? That will depend upon his idea of hap- 
piness. If it is purely sensual, then he is left to the 
impulses of sense; and that too without the guardian- 
ship of instinct, and with all the additional peril, in 
w r hich the infinite cravings of his soul put him, and 
against which, indeed, no barrier of instinct or pru- 
dence could ever defend him. But if his idea of hap- 
piness includes a spiritual good, that implies a faith in 
the spiritual ; and this is the very faith for which I 
contend. And I contend, too, that this faith — faith in 
moral principles, faith in virtue and in God — is as ne- 
cessary for the guidance of a man, as instinct is for 
the guidance of an animal. This, I believe, will not 
be denied. I believe that every man must be conscious 
that to be given up to his sensual impulses, without 
any faith in virtue or in God, would be as certain ruin 
to him, as it would be to an animal to be sent into the 
world without the control of instinct. And if it be so, 
then has the one principle, a place as truly appointed, 
a mission as truly authentic in God's providence, as 
the other. 

But further; man and animal too, need more than 
safety. They need some positive good — something 
that satisfies. The animal has it, in the pleasures of 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



45 



sensation. But will these suffice for a man ? It would 
be an insult to any one, feeling as a man, formally to 
answer the question. But if higher pleasures are de- 
manded, these must be the pleasures of the soul. And 
these pleasures must depend on certain principles ; 
they must recognize a soul ; that is, they must recog- 
nize the properties and responsibilities of a soul; they 
must recognize a conscience and the sense of an au- 
thority above us ; and these are the principles of faith. 

Moreover, the soul on earth is placed in fearful straits 
of affliction and temptation. This too, it would be but 
an insult to human feeling formally to prove. And in 
this view, I maintain, and I only maintain what every 
reflecting man must feel to be true, that no tolerable 
scheme of life — no tolerable scheme of a rational, tried, 
suffering, and yet improving and happy existence — can be 
formed, which leaves out the religious principle, the 
principle of faith. I do not ask you to receive this as 
what is said in the pulpit, or is wont to be laid down in 
religious discourse ; but I desire you to see that it stands 
and stands eternally, in the very truth of things. A man 
cannot suffer and be patient; he cannot struggle and con- 
jure ; he cannot improve and be happy, without con- 
science, without hope, without God in the world. Neces- 
sity is laid upon us to embrace the great truths of reli- 
gion and to live by them, to live happily ; and can the lan- 
guage of this necessity be mistaken ? Can it be, that 
while there is one thing, above all others, necessary to 
support, strengthen, guide and comfort us — that one 
thing — upon which moreover, the hearts of the wise and 
good have ever rested, — should be, of all things in the 
world, the thing most false, treacherous, and delusive ? 

# 4 



-AG 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



It would be strange indeed, if it were so ; and strange 
would be the assertion even to the point of incredibility. 
What ! — we should say —has every thing in the universe 
certain laws and principles for its action — the star in its 
orbit, the animal in its activity, the human body in its 
functions — and has the human soul nothing to guide it ? 
Nay, man as a physical being has strong and sure sup^ 
ports. Has he none as a spiritual being? He knows 
how to feed and nourish his body ; there are laws for 
that. Must his soul die, for want of aliment — for want 
of guidance ? For his physical action too, he has laws 
of art. The builder, the sower, the toiler at the oar and 
the anvil, has certain principles to go by. Has the man 
none at all ? Nay more, the wants of animal sense are 
regarded. In every hedge, and water-pool, and moun- 
tain-top, there is supply. For the rational soul is there 
no provision ? From the lofty pine, rocked in the dark- 
ening tempest, the cry of the young raven is heard. And 
for the cry and the call of all that want and sorrow and 
agony that overshadow and rive the human heart, is there 
no answer ? 

But I cannot argue the point any farther ; and I need 
not ; it is too plain. The total rejection of all moral and 
religious belief, strikes out a principle from human na- 
ture as essential to it, as gravitation is to inanimate na- 
ture, as instinct is to animal life, or as the circulation of 
the blood, to the human body. 

It is on this principle that it is said, " he that be- 
lieveth not, shall be damned." This is apt to be regarded 
as a harsh declaration ; but the truth is, it is only the as- 
sertion of a simple fact ; and of a fact which every 
thoughtful and feeling mind knows to be true. The Bible 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



47 



speaks, as we should speak to the famished man, saying 
" eat — drink ; or die !" Its words — " death," and " dam- 
nation" — mean nothing else but that unavoidable misery 
which must spring from boundless wants unsatisfied — 
boundless wants which nothing but boundless objects, the 
objects of faith, can satisfy. 

I have now considered life as an argument, and an in- 
dependent argument, for faith. It would be easy to spread 
this view of life, over the whole ground of that preliminary 
discussion, which introduces the evidences of Christian- 
ity ; and to show that the presumption of reason and ex. 
perience, and the whole weight of that presumption, in- 
stead of being, as is commonly supposed, against the be- 
liever, is, in fact, in his favor. But the space which I 
designed to give to this topic, is already taken up by the 
few hints which I have laid before you ; and I must now 
pass to the other branch of my discourse, and occupy the 
time that remains to me, with the consideration of life as 
an argument for accomplishing its moral design — in other 
words, as a motive to virtue. This too, as well as the 
former, I propose to consider as an independent topic. 

Thus then, I state it. Let what will, be true, or be 
false : admit ever so little into your creed, reject ever so 
much ; nay, go to the uttermost limits of skepticism ; 
deny revelation ; deny the "elder Scripture" written in 
the heart ; deny the very being of a God ! — what then ? 
I will now express no horror nor wonder, though I might 
do so : I will speak to you as a calm reasoner : and I say, 
what then 1 Why, here you are, a living being — there 
can be no skepticism about that ; here you are a living 
being — alive to happiness, alive to misery ; here you are, 
in vicissitude, in uncertainty, in all the accidents of a 



48 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



mingled lot, in conditions and relations that touch all the 
secret springs of the soul ; here you are, amidst a frail 
life, and daily approaching to certain death ; and if you 
say you have no concern nor care for the end of all this, 
then have you forfeited all claim to the attributes of a 
reasonable nature, and are not to be addressed as a rea- 
sonable creature. 

But no one says this. No one refuses to come within 
the range of those considerations that bind him to fulfil 
his destiny, to accomplish the legitimate objects of his 
being, to be upright, virtuous, and pure. No one rejects 
this bond in theory, however he may resist it in practice. 

Let us see, then, how strong this bond is. Let us look 
at life, as a social, and as an individual lot. 

God has ordained that life should be a social condition. 
We are members of a civil community. The life, the 
more than life of that community, depends upon its moral 
condition. Public spirit, intelligence, uprightness, tem- 
perance, kindness, domestic purity, will make it a happy 
community. Prevailing selfishness, dishonesty, intem- 
perance, libertinism, crime, will make it a miserable com- 
munity. Look, then, at this life which a whole people is 
living. Look at the heavings of its mighty heart, at the 
throbbings of the universal pulse of existence. Look at 
the stream of life, as it flows, with ten thousand inter- 
mingled branches and channels, through all the homes of 
human love. Listen to that sound as of many waters, 
that rapturous jubilee, or that mournful sighing, that 
comes up from the congregated dwellings of a whole na- 
tion. 

I know that to many the public is a kind of vague ab- 
straction : and that what is done against the public — the 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



49 



public interest, law, or virtue — presses lightly on the con- 
science. Yet what is this public, but a vast expansion 
of individual life 1 — an ocean of tears, an atmosphere of 
sighs ; or a surrounding world of joy and gladness? It 
suffers with the suffering of millions : it rejoices with the 
joy of millions. Who then art thou — private man or 
public man, agent or contractor, senator or magistrate, 
cabinet secretary or lofty president — who art thou that 
darest, with indignity and wrong, to strike the bosom of 
the public welfare ? Who art thou, that with vices, like 
the daggers of a parricide, darest to pierce that mighty 
heart, in which the ocean of existence is flowing ? 

But have we, in this general view, presented all that 
belongs to social life ? No ; there are other relations. 
You are a parent or a child, a brother or a sister, a hus- 
band, wife, friend, or associate. What an unequalled in- 
terest lies in the virtue of every one whom thou lovest? 
Ay, in his virtue, nowhere but in his virtue, is garnered up 
the incomparable treasure. Thy brother, thy husband, 
thy friend, — what carest thou for, compared with what 
thou carest for his honor, his fidelity, his kindness 1 Thy 
parent — how venerable is his rectitude ! — how sacred his 
reputation ! — and what blight is there to thee, like his dis- 
honor ! Thy child — ay, thy child ! — be thou heathen or 
christian, thou would'st have him do well : thou hast 
poured out all the fulness of parental love in the one de- 
sire, that he may do well ; that he may be worthy of thy 
cares and thy freely bestowed gains ; that he may walk 
in the way of honor and" happiness. And yet he cannot 
walk one step in that way without virtue. Such, yes 
such, is life in its relationship. A thousand clasping ties 
embrace it ; each one sensitive and thrilling to the touch ; 



50 



LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



each one like the strings of a delicate instrument, capa- 
ble of sweet melodies and pleasures ; but each one, 
wounded, lacerated, broken, by rudeness, by anger, and 
by guilty indulgence. 

But that life, my friends, whose springs of powerful 
action are felt in every department and relationship of 
society ; whose impulses are abroad every where, like 
waves upon the boundless sea — that life gathers up and 
concentrates all its energies upon the individual mind and 
heart. To that individual experience — to mine, to yours 
— I would last appeal. 

The personal experience of life, I say — by what strange 
fatality is it, that it can escape the calls which religion 
and virtue make upon it ? Oh ! if it were something 
else ; if it were something duller than it is ; if it could, 
by any process, be made insensible to pain and pleasure ; 
if the human heart were but made a thing as hard as ad- 
amant, then were the case a different one ; then might 
avarice, ambition, sensuality channel out their paths in 
it, and make it their beaten way, and none might wonder 
at it, or protest against it. If we could but be patient 
under the load of a worldly life ; if we could — Oh ! 
Heaven ! how impossible ! — if we could bear the burthen, 
as beasts of burthen bear it ; then as beasts might we 
bend all our thoughts to the earth, and no call from the 
great heavens above us, might startle us from our plodding 
and earthly course. 

Bat to what a being, to what a nature, am I permitted 
in the name of truth and religion to speak ? If I might 
use the freedom with which one would speak to a son, 
who was casting off all holy bonds, I should say — "you are 
not a stone ; you are not an earth-clod ; you are not an 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



51 



insensible brute ; yet, you ought to be such, to refuse the 
call of reason and conscience. Your body should be in- 
capable of pain and your soul of remorse. But such you 
are not and cannot make yourself." When the great dis- 
pensation of life presses down upon you, my friend, how- 
is it with you ? You weep ; you suffer and sorrow. I 
hold every human being to that. Think what we will ; 
speculate as wildly, doubt as rashly, as we can, yet here 
is a matter of fact. Cold, dead, earthly, or philosophic, 
as we may be, yet we are beings that weep, that suffer 
and sorrow. What ! sorrow and agony — can they dwell 
in the same heart with worldliness and irreligion, and de- 
sire no other companionship? Tell me not of the 
recklessness of melancholy and disappointment, or the 
desperation of vice. Say not, young man, that you care 
nothing what befalls in this miserable and worthless life. 
Recklessness, with its scornful lip and its smothered an- 
ger — desperation, with its knitted brow and its glaring 
eye — I have seen it ; and what is it ? What is it, but 
agony — agony which almost chokes the voice that is all 
the while striving to tell us how calm and indifferent it is ? 

But let us look at the matter, coolly — coolly as if it 
were a matter of the most deliberate calculation. You 
are a toiler in the field of life. You would not consent to 
labor, for a week, nor for a day — no, and you will not lift 
one burthen from the earth, without a recompense. Are 
you willing to bear those burthens of the heart — fear, 
anxiety, disappointment, trouble — compared with which 
the severest toil is a pleasure and a pastime; and all this 
without any object or use? You are a lover of pleasure. 
And you would not voluntarily forego an hour's pleasure 
without some object to be gained by it — the preservation 



52 LIFE CONSIDERED AS AN ARGUMENT 



of health, or the prospect of future, compensatory enjoy- 
ments. Are you willing then to suffer — to be sick or 
afflicted — for so, from time to time, does the dispensation 
of life press upon you — are you willing to have days and 
months lost to comfort and joy, overshadowed with calamity 
and grief, without any advantage, any compensation ? 
You are a dealer in the merchandize of this world. You 
would not, without a return, barter away the most trifling 
article of that merchandize. Will you thus barter away 
the dearest treasures of your heart, the very sufferings of 
your heart? Will you sell the very life-blood from 
your failing frame and fading cheek, will you sell tears 
of bitterness aud groans of anguish, for nothing? Can 
human nature — frail, feeling, sensitive, sorrowing human 
nature — afford to suffer for nothing? 

I have touched now upon the darker coloring of human 
experience ; but that experience, whether bright or dark, 
is all vivid ; it is all, according to the measure of every 
one's power, earnest and affecting; it is all in its indications, 
solemn and sublime • it is all moving and monitory. In 
youth, in age, it is so ; in mature vigor, in failing and de- 
clining strength ; in health and in sickness ; in joy and in 
sorrow ; in the musings of solitude, and amidst the throng 
of men ; in privacy and amidst the anxieties and intrigues 
of public station : in the bosom of domestic quietude, and 
alike in the press and shock of battle — every where, human 
life is a great and solemn dispensation. Man, suffering, 
enjoying, loving, hating, hoping, fearing, — now soaring to 
heaven, and now sinking to the grave — man is ever the 
creature of a high and stupendous destiny. In his bosom 
is wrapped up, a momentous, an all-comprehending ex- 
perience, whose unfolding is to be, in ages and worlds, un- 



FOR FAITH AND VIRTUE. 



53 



known. Around this great action of existence, the cur- 
tains of time are drawn, but there are openings through 
them, to the visions of eternity. God from on high looks 
down upon this scene of human probation ; Jesus hath in- 
terposed for it, with his teachings and his blood ; heaven 
above, waits with expectation, hell from beneath, is moved 
at the fearful crisis ; every thing, every thing that exists 
around us, every movement in nature, every counsel of 
providence, every interposition of heavenly grace, centres 
upon one point — upon one point — the fidelity of man! 

Will he not be faithful — will he not be thoughtful — will 
he not do the work, that is given him to do ? To his lot 
— such a lot ; to his wants, weighing upon him like 
mountains ; to his sufferings lacerating his bosom with 
agony ; to his joys, offering foretastes of heaven ; to all 
this tried and teaching life, will he not be faithful? Will 
not you ? Shall not I, my brother ? If not, what remains 
— what can remain, to be done for us ? If we will not 
hear these things, neither should we believe though one 
rose from the dead. No ; though the ghosts of the de- 
parted and the remembered, should come at midnight 
through the barred doors of our dwellings ; though the 
sheeted dead should stalk through the very aisles of our 
churches ; they could not more powerfully teach us than 
the dread realities of life — nay more, and those memories 
of mispent years too, those ghosts of departed opportunities, 
that point to our consciences and point to eternity, saying 
"work while the day lasts, for the night of death cometh 
in which no man can work ! " 



5 



DISCOURSE IV. 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



EPISTLE OF PAUL TO TITOS I. 15. — UNTO THE PURE ARE ALL 
THINGS PURE. 

And to expand the same sentiment a little ; all things 
bear to us, a character corresponding with the state of 
our own minds. Life is what we make it ; and the world 
is what we make it. 

I can conceive that to some who hear me, this may- 
appear to be a very singular, if not extravagant statement. 
You look upon this life and upon this world, and you de- 
rive from them, it may be, a very different impression. 
You see the earth perhaps, only as a collection of blind, 
obdurate, inexorable elements and powers. You look 
upon the mountains that stand fast for ever ; you look 
upon the seas, that roll upon every shore their ceaseless 
tides ; you walk through the annual round of the seasons ; 
all things seem to be fixed — summer and winter, seed-time 
and harvest, growth and decay ; and so they are. Bat 
does not the mind, after all, spread its own hue over 
all these scenes ? Does not the cheerful man make 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



55 



a cheerful world ? Does not the sorrowing man make 
a gloomy world ? Does not every mind make its own 
world 1 Does it not — as if indeed a portion of the Di- 
vinity were imparted to it — does it not almost create 
the scene around it? Its power, in fact, scarcely falls 
short of the theory of those philosophers, who have sup- 
posed that the world has no existence at all, but in our 
own minds. So again with regard to human life, it seems 
to many, probably, unconscious as they are of the mental 
and moral powers which control it, as if it were made up 
of fixed conditions, and of immense and impassible dis- 
tinctions. But upon all conditions presses down one im- 
partial law. To all situations, to all fortunes high or low, 
the mind gives their character. They are in effect,not 
what they are in themselves, but what they are, to the 
feeling of their possessors. The king upon his throne and 
amidst his court, may be a mean, degraded, miserable 
man ; a slave, to ambition, to voluptuousness, to fear, to 
every low passion. The peasant in his cottage, may be 
the real monarch ; the moral master of his fate ; the free 
and lofty being — more than a prince in happiness — more 
than a king in honor. And shall the mere names which 
these men bear, blind us to the actual positions which 
they occupy amidst God's creation. No ; beneath the 
all-powerful law of the heart, the master, is often a slave ; 
and the slave — is master. 

It has been maintained, I know, in opposition to the 
view which we take of life, that man is the creature of cir- 
cumstances. But what is there in the circumstances of 
the slave to make him free in spirit, or of the monarch to 
make him, timid and time-serving? This doctrine of fate 
— that man is but a bubble upon the sea of his fortunes, 



56 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



that he is borne a helpless and irresponsible being upon 
tide of events, — is no new doctrine, as some of its modern 
advocates seem to suppose ; it has always formed a lead- 
ing part of the creed of Atheism. But I ask if the reverse 
of this doctrine is not obviously true 1 Do not different 
men bring out of the same circumstances totally different 
results? Does not that very difficulty, distress, poverty 
or misfortune, which breaks down one man, build up 
another, and make him strong ? It is the very attribute, 
the glory of a man ; it is the very power and mastery of 
that will which constitutes one of his chief distinctions 
from the brute, that he can bend the circumstances of his 
condition to the intellectual and moral purposes of his 
nature. 

But it may be said, that the mind itself, is the offspring 
of culture ; that is to say, the creature of circumstances. 
This is true, indeed, of early childhood. But the moment 
that the faculty of moral will, is developed, a new element 
is introduced, which changes the whole complexion of the 
argument. Then a new power is brought upon the 
scene, and it is a ruling power. It is delegated power 
from heaven. There never was a being sunk so low, but 
God has thus given him the power to rise. God com- 
mands him to rise, and therefore, it is certain, that he can 
rise. Every man has the power and every man should 
use it, to make all situation, all trials and temptations 
conspire to the promotion of his virtue and happiness. In 
this, then, the only intelligible sense, man, so far from 
being the creature of circumstances, creates them, — con- 
trols them, — makes them, that is to say, to be all they are 
of evil or good to him as a moral being. 

Life then is what we make it, and the world is what we 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



57 



make it. Even our temporary moods of mind, and much 
more, our permanent character whether social or religious, 
may be appealed to as illustrative of this truth. 

E Observe, in the first place, the effect of our most casual 
moods of mind. 

It is the same creation upon which the eyes of the 
cheerful and the melancholy man are fixed ; yet how 
different are the aspects which it bears to them ! To the 
one it is all beauty and gladness; "the waves of ocean 
roll in light, and the mountains are covered with day." 
It seems to him as if life went forth rejoicing upon every 
bright wave, and every shining bough, shaken in the 
breeze. It seems as if there were more than the eye seeth, 
— a presence — a presence of deep joy — among the hills 
and the vallies, and upon the bright waters. But now the 
gloomy man, stricken and sad at heart, stands idly or 
mournfully gazing at the same scene, and what is it? 
What is it, to him? The very light, — "Bright effluence 
of bright essence increate," — yet the very light seems to 
him as a leaden pall thrown over the face of nature. All 
things wear to his eye a dull, dim, and sickly aspect. The 
great train of the seasons is passing before him, but he sighs 
and turns away, as if it were the train of a funeral pro- 
cession ; and he wonders within himself at the poetic re- 
presentations and sentimental rhapsodies that are lavished 
upon a world so utterly miserable. Here, then, are two 
different worlds in which these two classes of beings live; 
and they are formed and made what they are, out of the 
very same scene, only by different states of mind in the 
beholders. The eye maketh that which it looks upon. 
The ear maketh its own melodies or discords. The 
world without reflects the world within. 

5* 



58 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



IT. Again, this life, this world is what we make it, by our 
social character ; by our adaptation, or want of adaptation, 
to its social conditions, relationships and pursuits. To the 
selfish, to the cold and insensible, to the haughty and pre- 
suming, to the proud who demand more than they are like- 
ly to receive, to the jealous, who are always afraid they shall 
not receive enough, to the unreasonably sensitive about 
others' good or ill opinion, and in fine, to the violators of 
social laws, of all sorts, — the rude, the violent, the dishonest 
and the sensual, — to all these, the social condition, from 
its very nature ; will present annoyances, disappointments, 
and pains, appropriate to their several characters. Every 
disposition and behavior has a kind of magnetic attraction, 
by which it draws to it, its like. Selfishness will hardly 
be a central point around which the benevolent affections 
will revolve ; the cold-hearted may expect to be treated 
with coldness, and the proud with haughtiness, the passion- 
ate, with anger and the violent with rudeness; and those 
who forget the rights of others, must not be surprised if 
their own are forgotten ; and those who forget their digni- 
ty, who stoop to the lowest embraces of sense, must not 
wonder, if others are not concerned to find their prostrate 
honor, and to lift it up to the remembrance and respect of 
the world. Thus, the bad make the social world they 
live in. So, also, do the good. To the gentle, how many 
will be gentle — to the kind, how many will be kind! 
How many does a lovely example win to goodness ! How 
many does meekness subdue to a like temper, when they 
come into its presence ! How many does sanctity purify 
— how many does it command to put away all earthly de- 
filements, when they step upon its holy ground ! Yes, a 
good man, a really good man, will find that there is good- 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



59 



ness in the world ; and an honest man will find that there 
is honesty in the world ; a man of principle will find prin- 
ciple, yes, a principle of religious integrity, in the hearts 
of others. I know that this is sometimes denied, and de- 
nied with much scorn and self-complacency. But when 
a man says that true religious virtue is all a pretence, 
though the charge is put forward in quite another guise. 
I confess that I most of all suspect the heart of the com- 
plainant. I suspect that it is a heart itself estranged from 
truth and sanctity, that can find no truth nor sincerity in 
all the religious virtue that is around it. True, most true, 
most lamentably true it is, — nothing is so lamentably true, 
— as that there is too little religious fervor in the world ; 
but still there is a feeling ; there is some religious sensi- 
bility, — the most precious deposit in the heart of society, 
— there is some anxiety, on this great theme, holy and 
dear, to him whose mind is touched with that inexpressible 
emotion ; and he whose mind is so touched, will as cer- 
tainly find those deep tokens of the soul's life, as the kind- 
ling eye will find beauty amidst the creation, or as the 
attuned ear will find the sweet tone of music, amidst the 
discords of nature. Thus it is, that the mind discovers 
social virtue and developes the social world around it. 
The corrupt mind elicits what is bad ; and the pure mind 
brings out what is good. 

But the pure mind makes its own social world, in an- 
other sense. It not only unfolds that world to itself, but 
all its relations to society are sanctified ; the otherwise 
rough contracts of life are softened to it, and its way is 
graciously made smooth and easy. The general com- 
plaint is, that society is full of mistrust and embarrass- 
ment, of competitions, and misunderstandings, and unkind 



60 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



criticisms and unworthy jealousies. But let any one bear 
within him, a humble mind ; let him be too modest to make 
any unreasonable demands upon others, too mistrustful 
and tenderly solicitous about the keeping of his own heart, 
to be severe or censorious : let him simply be a good man 
— full of true and pure love to those around him, — full of 
love to God — full of holy indifference to earthly vanities, 
— full of the heaven-ward thought, that soars far beyond 
them ; and what, now, has this man to do with wordly 
strifes and intrigues, with poor questions of precedence, and 
the small items of unsettled disputes, and unsatisfied sus- 
picions ? An excellent simplicity that cannot understand 
them — a high aim that cannot bend its eye upon them — a 
generous feeling that cannot enter into them — a goodness 
that melts all difference into harmony— this is the wise 
man's protection and blessing. 

III. I have spoken of the world of nature, and of the 
world of society. There is also a world of events, of 
temptations and trials and blessings ; and this, too, is 
.what we make it. It is what we make it by our religious 
character. 

There are no blessings — and it is a stupendous truth 
that I utter — there are no blessings which the mind may 
not convert into the bitterest of evils ; and there are no 
trials which, it may not transform into the most noble and 
divine of blessings. There are no temptations from which 
the virtue they assail, may not gain strength, instead of 
falling a sacrifice to them. I know that the virtue often 
falls. I know that the temptations have great power. 
But what is their power ? It lies in the weakness of our 
virtue- Their power lies not in them, but in us, in the 
treason of our own hearts. To the pure, all things are 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



6i 



pure. The proffer of dishonest gain, of guilty pleasure, 
makes them more pure ; raises their virtue to the height 
of towering indignation. The fair occasion, the safe 
opportunity, the goodly chance of victory, with which sin 
approaches the heart to ensnare and conquer it — all are 
turned into defeat and disgrace for the tempter, and into 
the triumph and confirmation of virtue. But to the im- 
pure, to the dishonest, false-hearted, corrupt, and sensual, 
occasions come every day, and in every scene, and through 
every avenue of thought and imagination. To the impure 
occasions come, did I say — rather do they make occasions; 
or if occasions, if opportunities, come not, evil thoughts 
come ; no hallowed shrine, no holy temple, no sphere of 
life, though consecrated to purity and innocence, can keep 
them out. So speaketh the sacred text, and in this very 
striking language, " To the pure all things are pure ; but 
to them that are denied and unbelieving, nothing is pure ; 
for even their mind and conscience is defiled." 

Thus might we pass in survey all the circumstances 
of man's earthly condition, and bring from every state 
and pursuit of human life, the same conclusion. Upon 
the irreligious man, the material world has the effect 
to occupy him, and estrange him from God ; but to the 
devout man, the same scene is a constant ministration 
of high and holy thoughts. Thus also, the business 
of this world, while it absorbs, corrupts and degrades 
one mind, builds up another in the most noble inde- 
pendence, integrity and generosity, So, too, pleasure 
which, to some, is a noxious poison, is, to others, a 
healthful refreshment. The scene is the same. The 
same event happeneth to all. Life is substantially the 
same thing to all who partake of its lot. Yet some 



62 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



rise to virtue and glory, and others sink, from the 
same discipline, from the same privileges, to shame 
and perdition. 

Life, then, I repeat, is what we make it, and the 
world is what we make it. Life, that is to say, takes 
its coloring from our own minds ; the world, as the 
scene of our welfare or woe, is, so to speak, moulded 
in the bosom of human experience. The archetypes, 
the ideal forms of things without — if not as some phi- 
losophers have said, in a metaphysical sense, yet in a 
moral sense — they exist within us. The world is the 
mirror of the soul. Life is the history, not of out- 
ward events — not of outward events chiefly — but life, 
human life, is the history of a mind. To the pure, all 
things are pure. To the joyous, all things are joyous. 
To the gloomy, all things are gloomy. To the good, 
all things are good. To the bad, all things are bad. 
The world is nothing but a mass of materials, subject 
to a great moral experiment. The human breast is the 
laboratory. We work up those materials into what 
forms we please. This illustration too — if any one 
should take me too literally — will furnish the proper 
qualification The materials, indeed, are not absolute- 
ly under our control. They obey the laws of a higher 
power. Those laws, too, are fixed laws. Yet the 
chemist in his laboratory, accomplishes all that he ra- 
tionally desires to accomplish. The elements are 
enough under his command to answer all his purposes. 
Nay, if they did not furnish difficulties and require 
experiments, his science would not exist ; his know- 
ledge would be intuition. So with the moral experi- 
menter. He has to overcome difficulties, to solve 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



63 



questions ; still, within the range of rational wishes, 
and in submission to the power of God, he can work 
out what results he pleases ; and if there were no 
difficulties, there would be no virtue, no moral science 
of life. 

I am sensible that I have dwelt at considerable 
length upon the proofs of my doctrine; but I must 
beg your indulgence to some farther consideration of 
it, in application to two states of mind ; I mean to 
complaint and discouragement. These states of mind 
have, indeed, the same leaning, but still they are very 
different. Complaint is bold and open-mouthed, and 
speaks like one injured and wronged. Discourage- 
ment is timid and silent : it does not consider whether 
it is wronged, but it knows that it is depressed, and at 
times, almost crushed to the earth. There are many 
minds to be found in one or other of these conditions. 
Indeed, I think that the largest amount of human suf- 
fering may be found in the form either of complaint 
or of discouragement; and if there be any thing in the 
doctrine of this discourse, to disarm the one, or to re- 
lieve the other, it well deserves a place in our medi- 
tations. 

Our complaints of life, mainly proceed upon the 
ground that, for our unhappiness, something is in fault 
besides ourselves, and I maintain that this ground is 
not fairly taken. We complain of the world ; we 
complain of our situation in the world. 

Let us look a moment at this last point — what is 
called a situation in the world. In the first place, it is 
commonly what we make it, in a literal sense. We 
are high or low, rich or poor, honored or disgraced, 



64 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



usually, just in proportion as we have been industrious 
or idle, studious or negligent, virtuous or vicious. 
But in the next place, suppose that, without any fault 
of our own, our situation is a trying one. Doubtless 
it is so, in many instances. But then I say that the 
main point affecting our happiness in this case, is not 
our situation, but the spirit with which we meet it. In 
the humblest conditions, are found happy men ; in the 
highest, unhappy men. And so little has mere condi- 
tion to do with happiness, that a just observation, I 
am persuaded, will find about an equal proportion of 
it, among the poor and the rich, the high and the low. 
" But my relation to the persons or things around me," 
one may say, "is peculiarly trying: neither did I 
choose the relation ; I would gladly escape from it." 
Still, I answer, a right spirit may bring from this very 
relation the noblest virtue and the noblest enjoyment. 
"Ah! the right spirit!" — it may be said — "to obtain 
that is my greatest difficulty. Doubtless, if I had the 
spirit of an angel, or of an Apostle, I might get along 
very well. Then I should not be vexed, nor angered, 
nor depressed. But the very effort to gain that serene 
and patient mind, is painful, and often unsuccessful." 
Yes, and the ill success is the pain. It is not true, 
that thorough, faithful endeavor to improve is un- 
happy ; that honest endeavor I mean, which is always 
successful. On the contrary, it is, this side heaven, 
the highest happiness. The misery of the effort is 
owing to its insufficiency. The misery then, is mainly 
our own fault. 

On every account therefore, I must confess, that I am 
disposed to entertain a very ill opinion of misery. Whether 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 65 

regarded as proceeding from a man's condition or from 
his own mind, I cannot think well of it. I cannot look 
upon it with the favor which is accorded to it by much 
modern poetry and sentiment. These sentimental sigh- 
ings over human misfortune which we hear, are fit only 
for children, or at least for the mind's childhood. You 
may say if you will, that the preacher's heart is hard when 
he avers this, or that he knows not trial or grief ; but if 
you do, it will be because you do not understand the 
preacher's argument — no, nor his mind neither. What 
I say to you, I say to myself — the mind's misery, is chiefly 
its own fault. Sentimental sighings there may be in early 
youth, and in a youthful and immature poetry ; but he 
who has come to the manhood of reason and experience, 
should know, what is true, that the mind's misery is chiefly 
its own fault; nay more, and is appointed, under the good 
providence of God, as the punisher and corrector of its 
fault. Trial is indeed a part of our lot ; but suffering is 
not to be confounded with trial. Nay, amidst the severest 
trials, the mind's happiness may be the greatest that it 
ever knew. It has been so, in a body racked with pain, 
— nay, and in a body consumed by the fire of the martyr's 
sacrifice. I am willing, however, to allow that some ex- 
ceptions are to be made ; as for instance, in the first burst 
of grief or in the pains of lingering disease. The mind 
must have time for reflection, and it must have strength 
left to do its work. But its very work — its very office of 
reflection, is to bring good out of evil — happiness out of 
trial. And when it is rightly guided, this work it will 
do ; to this result it will come. In the long run, it will 
be happy, just in proportion to its fidelity and wisdom. 
Life will be what it makes life to be, and the world will 

6 



66 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



be what the mind makes it. With artificial wants, with 
ill. regulated desires, with selfish and sensitive feelings of 
its own cherishing, the mind must be miserable. And 
what then, is its misery ? Hath it not planted in its own 
path the thorns that annoy it ? And doth not the hand 
that planted, grasp them ? Is not the very loudness of 
the complaint, but the louder confession, on the part of 
him who makes it ? 

The complaint nevertheless with some, is very loud. 
" It is not a happy world," a man says, " but a very mise- 
rable world ; those who consider themselves saints may 
talk about a kind providence ; he cannot see much of it : 
those who have all their wishes gratified may think it is 
very well ; but he never had his wishes gratified ; and 
nobody cares whether he is gratified or not ; every body 
is proud and selfish," he says ; " if there is so much good- 
ness in the world, he wishes he could see some of it. 
This beautiful world ! as some people call it — -for his part 
he never saw any thing, very beautiful in it ; but he has 
seen troubles and vexations, clouds and storms enough ; 
and he has had long, tedious, weary days, and dark and dull 
nights ; if he could sleep through his whole life, and never 
want any thing, it would be a comfort." Mistaken man ! 
doubly mistaken — mistaken about the world — mistaken 
in thyself ; the world thou complainest of, is not God's 
world, but thy world ; it is not the world which God 
made, but it is the world which thou hast made for thy- 
self. The fatal blight, the dreary dulness, the scene so 
distasteful and dismal, is all in thyself. The void, the 
blank, amidst the whole rich and full universe is in thy 
heart. Fill thy heart with goodness, and thou wilt find 
that the world is full of good. Kindle a light within, and 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



67 



then the world will shine brightly around thee. But till 
then, though all the luminaries of heaven shed down their 
entire and concentrated radiance upon this world, it would 
be dark to thee. " The light that should be in thee is 
darkness, and how great is that darkness !" 

But I must turn in close, to address myself for a mo- 
ment, to a very different state of mind, and that is dis- 
couragement. Complaint is to be blamed ; but there is a 
heavy and uncomplaining discouragement, pressing upon 
many minds, which demands a kinder consideration. 
They have tried and not succeeded ; they have tried 
again, and failed, of the ends, the objects, which they 
sought; and they say, at length, " we give over ; we can 
never do any thing in this world ; ill fortune has taken 
the field against us, and we will battle with it, no 
longer." Yet more to be pitied are those who have 
never had even the courage to strive ; who, from their 
very cradle, have felt themselves depressed by unto- 
ward circumstances, by humble state or humble talents. 
Oftentimes the mind in such a case is, in culture and 
power, far beyond its own estimate ; but it has no apti- 
tude for worldly success ; it has no power to cause itself 
to be appreciated by others ; it has no charm of person 
or speech ; it is neglected by society, where almost every 
one is too much occupied with his own advancement to 
think of pining merit ; it is left to silent and solitary hours 
of discouragement and despondency. And in such hours 
— perhaps there are some here present who can bear me 
witness — the thoughts that sink deeply into the heart, 
though never, it may be, breathed in words, are such as 
these. " My chance in this world, is a poor one ; I have 
neither wealth, nor talents, nor family — I have nothing, 



68 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



to give me importance ; I have no friends to help me for- 
ward, or to introduce me favourably to the world ; I have 
no path open to me ; my success is poor, even my expec- 
tation is poor. Let the fortunate be thankful ; but I am 
not fortunate ; the great prizes are not for me ; despond 
I needs must, for hope I have none ; I will sit down in 
silence, and eat the bread of a neglected lot ; I will weep 
— but even that is useless ; away then, hope ! away tears ! 
— I will bear my heart calmly, though sadly, in its way, 
through a cold, ungenial, unkind world." 

And yet above this man is spread the sublimity of 
heaven, around him the beauty of earth ; to this man is 
unfolded the vision of God ; for this man Christ hath died, 
and to him, heaven is unveiled ; before this man lies the 
page of wisdom and inspiration ; and wisdom and sanc- 
tity, it is still given him to learn and gain — wisdom and 
sanctity, inward, all-sufficing and eternal. The uni- 
verse is full and rich for him. The heaven of heavens 
invites him to its abode ! 

Oh ! the intolerable worldliness of the world ! — the 
worldliness of fashion and fashionable opinion ! the world- 
liness of our eager throngs, and our gay watering-places, 
and our crowded cities, and our aspiring literature, and 
our busy commerce ! Distinction ! to be raised a little 
above the rest — to be talked of and pointed at, more than 
others — this hath blinded us to the infinite good that is 
offered to all men. And this distinction — what is it, after 
all ? Suppose that you were the greatest of the great ; 
one raised above kings ; one to whom courts and powers 
and principalities paid homage, and around whom ad- 
miring crowds gathered at every step. I tell you that I 
would rather have arrived at one profound conclusion of 



LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT. 



69 



the sage's meditation in his dim study, than to win that 
gaze of the multitude. I tell you that I had rather gain 
the friendship and love of one pure and lofty mind, than 
to gain that empty applause of a court or a kingdom. 
What then must it be to gain the approval, the friendship, 
the love of that ONE, infinitely great — infinitely dear to 
the whole pure and happy creation ? 

Before these awful and sublime realities of truth and 
sanctity, sink ! all worldly distinction, and worldly im- 
aginations ! Discouragement and despondency ! — for a 
creature to whom God hath ottered the loftiest opportunity 
and hope in the universe ? A humble, depressed, unfor- 
tunate lot ! — for him, before whom are spread the bound, 
less regions of truth, and wisdom, and joy? A poor 
chance ! — for him who may gain heaven 1 Ah ! sir, thy 
poverty, thy misfortune, is all in thyself. In the realm 
of God's beneficence, is an infinite fulness, and it all may 
be yours. Even to the despised and persecuted Christ- 
ians of old the Apostle said this ; and it is still, and for- 
ever true, to all who can receive it. " Therefore," says 
he, in his lofty reasoning, " let no man glory in men ; 
for all things are yours ; whether the world, or life, or 
death, or things present or things to come ; all are yours, 
and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's !" 



*6 



DISCOURSE V. 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



PS. CXLV. 9. The Lord is good to all, and his tender 

MERCIES ARE OVER ALL KIS WORKS. 

What I wish to suggest for your consideration from 
these words, is not the goodness of God only, but his 
goodness to all. I wish in other words, to examine the 
prevailing opinion that there is a great inequality in the 
distribution of the blessings of life. In opposition to this 
opinion I take up the words of the text. 

The Lord is good to all. It is not said merely that 
his tender mercies are over his works, but that they are 
over all his works. His providence is not only kind, but 
its kindness extends to every human being. 

There is no general view of life perhaps, with which 
the minds of men are more strongly impressed, than with 
the apparent inequalities of the human lot. It is proba- 
bly the most prolific source of all secret repining and 
open complaint. Affliction of a severe kind, comes but 
seldom ; but this inequality in the state of life is perma- 
nent. It is perfectly obvious too. Every one can see 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 71 



the difference between his situation in life, his dwelling, 
his equipage, and the observance which is paid to him — 
and those which belong to his more prosperous, wealthy, 
■or honored neighbor. The distinctions of life indeed, 
chiefly consist in the glare of outward things, and there- 
fore more powerfully impress the senses. 

Now if it can be made to appear that there is in fact, 
considerable deception in these estimates ; that things 
are far more impartially balanced in the system of provi- 
dence at large, than is commonly imagined ; that ine- 
-quality is not the rule of its operations, but only the ex- 
ception to the rule ; it would serve the important purpose 
of making us more contented with our lot ; more happy 
in the opportunities and means of happiness that are given 
to us all ; and more submissive and grateful, I would hope, 
to that Being who has so equally and so bountifully dis- 
tributed them. 

To this subject then, let me direct your thoughts this 
morning. 

I. And in the first place you see, at once, an instance 
and an illustration of this impartiality of Divine Provi- 
dence, in the inequalities caused by nature ; in the allot- 
ments of climate, temperature, soil and scenery. 

There is no one of us perhaps, whose thoughts have not 
sometimes wandered to fairer climes than our own, to 
lands of richer productions and more luxuriant beauty, to 
those isles and shores of the classic East, where all the 
glory of man has faded indeed — where all the monuments 
of his power and art have fallen to decay — but where 
nature lives forever, and forever spreads its unfading 
charm ; to the verdant and sunny vales of the South — 
regions of eternal Spring — where the circling seasons as 



72 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



they pass, let fall no chill nor blight upon the fresh and 
fragrant bosom of the earth. But is there no counterpart 
to this scene ? Where does the volcano lift up its sub- 
terraneous thunders, and pour forth its flaming deluge ? 
It is in these very regions of eternal Spring. It is on 
the green and flowery mount, on the vine-clad hills — 
fast by the quiet fold of the shepherd, and amidst the re- 
joicings of the vintage. Whence comes the fearful ru- 
mor of the earthquake, that has whelmed a city in ruins? 
It comes from the land of the diamond and the cane ; from 
the hills of Ophir ; from groves of the palm and the olive ; 
from vallies loaded with fruits, and fanned with aromatic 
gales — where if nature is more energetic to produce, she 
is also more energetic to destroy. Where does the dire 
pestilence walk in darkness, and the fell destruction waste 
at noon-day? Amidst groves of spices, and beneath 
bowers of luxuriance ; and the beam that lights its vic- 
tims to their tomb, is the brightest beam of heaven, and 
the scenes of which they take their last hasty leave, are 
the fairest that nature displays — -as if life and death were 
intended to be set in the most visible and vivid contrast. 
And where, but there also, is that worse than plague, and 
pestilence, and earthquake — that degradation of the 
mind — that wide spreading pestilence of the soul — that 
listless indolence, which only arouses to deeds of passion ! 
Let the millions of Southern Asia tell. Let Turkey, so 
often drenched with blood, answer. Let the wandering 
Arab, let the stupid Hottentot, let the slothful and sen- 
sual inhabitants of the fair isles of the Pacific teach us. 
Who would not rather struggle with fiercer elements, than 
to sink an ignoble prey to the soft languors of pleasures 
and the besotting indulgences of passion ? Who would 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 73 



not far prefer our wintry storm, and " the hoarse sighings 
of the East wind," as it sweeps around us, if they will 
brace the mind to nobler attainments, and the heart to 
better duties ? 

There is one class of virtues that is fostered by the 
rigors of our climate, which deserves to be particular- 
ly noticed. I mean the domestic virtues. We are 
compelled by the inclemency of our seasons, not only 
to have some permanent place of abode, but to resort 
to it. In milder regions, men live abroad — they are 
scarcely obliged to have any domicil. We are compel- 
led to live at home, and we attach a meaning to the 
term, and we hallow it with feelings that were unknown 
to the polished Greek and the voluptuous Asiatic. It 
is the angry and lowering sky of winter, that lights 
up the cheerful fire in our dwellings, and draws around 
the friendly circle. It is the cheerlessness of every 
thing abroad, that leads us to find or make pleasures 
within; to resort to books and the interchange of 
thought; to multiply the sources of knowledge and 
strengthen the ties of affection. It is the frowning 
face of nature, like the dark cloud of adversity, that 
lends attraction to all the sympathies and joys of home. 

II. But I come now in the second place to consider 
the impartiality of Divine Providence, in the condition 
of human life. Life — to borrow a comparison from 
the science of political economy — life, like nature, is 
a system of checks and balances. Every power of 
conferring happiness, is limited or else counteracted, 
by some other power either of good or evil. There 
is no blessing or benefit, but it has some drawback upon 
it; and there is no inconvenience nor calamity, but it 



74 ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



enjoys some compensation. This results from the 
very nature of things. You cannot enjoy things in- 
compatible. You cannot at once enjoy, for instance, 
the pleasures of the country and the town. You can- 
not mingle the quietude of obscurity with the emolu- 
ments and honors of office. You cannot have at the 
same time, the benefits of affliction and the joys of 
prosperity. If you would reach the loftiest virtue, 
you must sometimes endure sickness and pain, and you 
must, sometimes, be bowed down with sorrow. If 
you would have perpetual ease and indulgence, you 
must resign something of noble fortitude, holy pa- 
tience, and of the blessed triumphs of faith. 

The inequalities which appear in the condition of 
human life, relate chiefly to the possessions, the em- 
ployments, or the distinctions of society. If we should 
examine these, we should probably find that they are 
of less importance to our happiness than is commonly 
imagined. Indeed, we know that they all depend 
chiefly on the use that is made of them \ and their use 
depends upon the mind. Distinction and mediocrity, 
leisure and toil, wealth and poverty, have no intrinsic 
power of happiness or misery in their disposal. There 
is a principle within, that is to render them good or 
evil. 

But not at present, to insist on this ; these circum- 
stances of inequality, in themselves, are less than they 
seem. It is common, I know, to hear of the preroga- 
tives, the power, the independence, of the higher 
classes of society. But Divine Providence acknow- 
ledges no such nobility ; no such exemption from the 
wants of the human lot. It teaches us very little 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 75 



about prerogative or independence, however the pride 
of man may natter him. No tower of pride was ever 
high enough to lift its posessor above the trials and 
fears and frailties of humanity. No human hand ever 
built the wall, nor ever shall, that will keep out afflic- 
tion, pain and infirmity. Sickness, sorrow, trouble, 
death, are all levelling dispensations. They know 
none high nor low. The chief wants of life, too, the 
great necessities of the human soul, give exemption to 
none. They make all poor, all weak. They put sup- 
plication in the mouth of every human being, as truly 
as in that of the meanest beggar. 

Now consider society for one moment, in regard to its 
employments. And there is not, perhaps, a greater in- 
fatuation in the world, than for a man of active and indus- 
trious habits, to look with envy or repining upon the ease 
and leisure of his neighbor. Employment, activity, is 
one of the fundamental laws of human happiness. Ah ! 
the laborious indolence of him who has nothing to do ; 
the preying weariness, the stagnant ennui of him who 
has nothing to obtain ; the heavy hours which roll over 
him, like the waters of a Lethean sea, that has not yet 
quite drowned the senses in their oblivious stupor ; the 
dull comfort of having finished a day ; the dreariness in 
prospect of another to come ; in one word, the terrible 
visitation of an avenging Providence to him that lives to 
himself! 

But I need not dwell on a case so obvious, and proceed, 
at once to mention the distinction of wealth and poverty. 

It must not be denied that poverty, abject and desperate 
poverty, is a great evil ; but this is not a common lot, and 
it still more rarely occurs in this country, without faults 



76 ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 

or vices, which should forbid all complaint. Neither 
shall it here be urged, on the other hand, that riches are 
acquired with many labors and kept with many cares and 
anxieties; for so also it may be said, and truly said, has 
poverty its toils and anxieties. The true answer to all 
difficulties on this subject, seems to be, that a man's life 
consisteth not in the abundance of things which he pos- 
sessed. The answer in short, may be reduced to a 
plain matter of fact. There is about as much cheerful- 
ness among the poor as among the rich. And I suspect, 
about as much contentment too. For we might add, that a 
man's life if it consist at all in his possession, does not 
consist in what he possesses, but in what he thinks him- 
self to possess. Wealth is a comparative term. The 
desire of property grows, and at the same time the esti- 
mate of it lessens with its accumulation. And thus it 
may come to pass, that he who possesses thousands may 
less feel himself to be rich, and to all substantial purposes, 
may actually be less rich, than he who enjoys a suffi- 
ciency. 

But not to urge this point, we say, that a man's life 
does not consist in these things. Happiness, enjoyment, 
the buoyant spirits of life, the joys of humanity, do not 
consist in them. They do not depend on this distinction, 
of being poor or rich. As it is with the earth — that there 
are living springs within it, which will burst forth some- 
where, and that they are often most clear and healthful 
in the most sterile and rugged spots — so it is with the 
human heart. There are fountains of gladness in it : and 
why should they not revive the weary ? Why should 
they not cool the brow of labor, and the lips that are 
parched with toil ? Why should they not refresh the 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



77 



poor man ? Nay, but they do ; and they refresh him the 
more, because he is poor and weary. Man may hew out 
to himself cisterns — and how often are they broken cis- 
terns — which are scrupulously and proudly guarded from 
his poorer fellow-man : but the great fountains which God 
has opened are for all. This and that man may endeavor 
to appropriate them to himself ; he may guide them to 
his reservoir ; he may cause them to gush forth in artifi- 
cial fountains and to fall in artificial showers in his gar- 
dens ; but it is artificial still ; and one draught of the 
pure well-spring of honest, homely happiness, is better 
than them all ; and the shower which heaven sends, falls 
upon the rich and the poor, upon the high and the low 
alike, and with still more impartial favor, descends upon 
the good and the evil, upon the just and the unjust. 

III. This impartiality will be still more manifest, if we 
reflect in the third place, that far the greatest and most 
numerous of the divine favors are granted to all, without 
any discrimination. 

Look, in the first place, at the natural gifts of Provi- 
dence. The beauty of the earth, the glories of the sky ; 
the vision of the sun and the stars ; the beneficent laws 
of universal being ; the frame of society and of govern- 
ment ; protecting justice and Almighty providence — 
whose are these ? What power of appropriation can say 
of any one of these — " this is mine and not another's ?" 
And what one of these would you part with for the wealth 
of the Indies, or all the splendors of rank or office 1 
Again, your eye-sight — that regal glance that commands 
in one act, the out-spread and all-surrounding beauty of 
the fair universe — would you exchange it for a sceptre, 
or a crown 1 And the ear — that gathers unto its hidden 

7 



78 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



chambers all music and gladness — would you give it for 
a kingdom ? And that wonderful gift, speech — that 
breathes its mysterious accents into the listening soul of 
thy friend ; that sends forth its viewless messages through 
the still air, and imprints them at once upon the ears of 
thousands — would you barter that gift for the renown of 
Plato or of Milton ? 

No, there are unappropriated blessings — blessings 
which none can appropriate — in every element of nature, 
in every region of existence, in every inspiration of life, 
which are infinitely better than all that can be hoarded in 
treasure, or borne on the breath of fame. All, of which 
any human being can say, " it is mine," is a toy, is a 
trifle, compared with what God has provided for the great 
family of his children ! Is he poor to whom the great 
store-house of nature is opened, or does he think himself 
poor because it is God who has made him rich ? Does 
he complain that he cannot have a magnificent palace to 
dwell in, who dwells in this splendid theatre of the uni- 
verse ? — that he cannot behold swelling domes and painted 
walls, who beholds the " dread magnificence of heaven," 
and the pictured earth and sky 1 Do you regret the want 
of attendants, of a train of servants, to anticipate every 
wish and bring every comfort at your bidding ? Yet how 
small a thing is it to be waited on, compared with the 
privilege of being yourself active— compared with the 
vigor of health and the free use of your limbs and senses ? 
Is it a hardship that your table does not groan with luxu. 
ries 1 But how much better than all luxury, is simple 
appetite ! 

The very circumstances which gain for the distinc- 
tions of life such an undue and delusive estimation, 



ON INEQUALITY LN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



79 



are such as ought to make us cautious about the esti- 
mate we put upon them. They are distinctions, and 
therefore likely to be overrated ; but is that a good 
and sound reason why we should affix to them an 
undue importance. Are the palaces of kings to be re- 
garded with more interest than the humbler roofs that 
shelter millions of human beings. What more is the 
marriage of a queen — to the individual mind — though 
surrounded with the splendor and state of a kingdom ; 
though accompanied with shining troops and announ- 
ced by roaring cannon — what more is it than that mar- 
riage of hearts, that is every day consummated beneath 
a thousand lowly roofs ? The distinctions of life, too, 
are mostly factitious, the work of art, and man's de- 
vice. They are man's gifts, rather than God's gifts ; 
and for that reason I would esteem them less. They 
are fluctuating also, and therefore attract notice, but on 
that account too, are less valuable. They are palpa- 
ble to the senses, attended with noise and show, and 
therefore likely to be over-estimated. While those vast 
benefits which all share and which are always the same, 
which eome in the ordinary course of things, which do 
not disturb the ordinary and even tenor of life, pass 
by unheeded. The resounding chariot, as it rolls on 
with princely state and magnificence, is gazed upon with 
admiration and perhaps with envy. But morning comes 
forth in the east, and from his glorious chariot-wheels 
scatters light over the heavens and spreads life and 
beauty through the world : morning after morning 
comes, and noontide sets its throne in the southern 
sky, and the day finishes its splendid revolution in hea- 
ven, without exciting, perhaps, a comment or a reflec- 



80 ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 

tion. The pageant of fashion passes, and has the no- 
tice of many an eye, perhaps, to which it is all in vain 
that the seasons pass by in their glory ; that nature 
arrays herself in robes of light and beauty, and fills 
the earth with her train. To want what another po- 
sesses, to be outstripped in the race of honor or 
gain, to lose some of the nominal treasures of life, 
may be enough with some of us, to disturb and irri- 
tate us altogether ; and such an one shall think little 
of it that he has life itself and that he enjoys it ; it 
shall be nothing to him that he has quiet sleep in the 
night season, and that all the bounties of the day are 
spread before him ; that he has friends and domestic 
joys, and the living fountain of cheerful spirits and 
affectionate pleasures within him. 

Nor must we stop here in our estimate. There is 
an infinite sum of blessings which have not yet been 
included in the account; and these, like all the richest 
gifts of heaven, are open and free to all ; I mean the 
gifts, the virtues, the blessings of religion. 

It has already, indeed, sufficiently appeared, not 
only that the inequalities in the allotments of Provi- 
dence, are attended with a system of compensations 
and drawbacks, which make them far less than they 
seem ; and also on account of the vast blessings which 
are diffused every where and dispensed to all, that 
inequality, instead of being the rule of the Divine 
dealings, is only a slight exception to them. But we 
come now to a principle, that absorbs all other con- 
siderations : virtue, the only intrinsic, infinite, ever- 
lasting good, is accessible to all. If there were ever 
so strong and apparently just charges of partiality 



6N inequality in the lot of life. 



81 



against the Divine Providence, this principle would be 
sufficient to vindicate it. " O God I 1 ' exclaims the 
Persian poet Sadi, " have pity on the wicked! for thou 
hast done every thing for the good in having made 
them good !" 

How false and earthly are our notions of what is 
evil ! How possible is it that all advantages besides 
religion, may prove the greatest calamities ? How 
possible is it that distinction, that successful ambition, 
that popular applause, may be the most injurious, the 
most fatal evil that could befall us ? How possible 
that wealth may be turned into the very worst of 
curses, by the self-indulgence, the dissipation, the 
vanity or hardness of heart that it may produce ! 
And there is a judgment too, short of the judgment of 
heaven, that pronounces it to be so — the judgment of 
every right and noble sentiment, of all good sense, of 
all true friendship. There is a friend, not a flatterer, 
who, as he witnesses in some one, this sad dereliction, 
this poor exultation of vanity, this miserable bondage 
to flattery, or this direful success of some dark tempta- 
tion — who, as he witnesses this, will say in his secret 
thoughts, with the Persian sage, " Oh ! God, have pity 
on the wicked ; have pity on my friend ! would that 
he were poor and unnoticed, would that he were neg- 
lected or forsaken, rather than thus !" It is therefore 
a matter of doubt whether those things which we 
crave as blessings would really be such to us. And 
then, as to the trials of life, their unequalled benefits are 
a sufficient answer to every objection that can be 
brought against their unequal distribution. 

We hear it said that there is much evil in the world » 
*7 



82 ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 

and this or that scene of suffering is brought as an ex- 
ample of the partial dealings of heaven ; and it is felt, 
if it is not said, perhaps, that " God's ways are une- 
qual." But the strongest objector on this ground, I 
think, would yield, if he saw that the attendant and 
fruit of all this suffering, were a fortitude, a cheerful- 
ness, a heavenliness, that shed brighter hues than 
those of earth, upon the dark scene of calamity and 
sorrow. I have seen suffering, sorrow, bereavement, 
all that is darkest in human fortunes, clothed with a 
virtue so bright and beautiful, that sympathy was 
almost lost in the feeling of congratulation and joy. 
I have heard more than one sufferer say, "I am thank- 
ful ; God is good to me ;" and when I heard that, I 
said, " it is good to be afflicted." There is, indeed, 
much evil in the world; but without it, there would 
not be much virtue. The poor, the sick and the afflict- 
ed, could be relieved from their trials at once, if it 
were best for them; but if they understood their own 
welfare, they would not desire exemption from their 
part in human trials. There might be a world of ease 
and indulgence and pleasure; but " it is a world," to 
use the language of another, " from which, if the op- 
tion were given, a noble spirit would gladly hasten 
into that better world of difficulty and virtue and 
conscience, which is the scene of our present ex- 
istence." 

In fine, religion is a blessing so transcendent, as to 
make it of little consequence what else we have, or 
what else we want. It is enough for us — it is enough 
for us all ; for him who is poor, for him who is neg- 
lected, for him who is disappointed and sorrowful ; it 



ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 83 

is enough for him, though there were nothing else, 
that he may be good and happy for ever. In compa- 
rison with this, to be rich, to be prosperous, and mere- 
ly that, is the most trifling thing that can be imagined. 
Is it not enough for us, my brethren, that we may 
gain those precious treasures of the soul, which the 
world cannot give nor take away; that the joys and 
consolations and hopes of the Spirit and Gospel of 
Christ may be ours? Has not he a sufficiency — is not 
his heart full — is not his blessedness complete, who 
can say, " Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there 
is none upon earth that I desire besides thee : all 
things else may fail — my heart may lose its power, 
and my strength its firmness — but thou art the strength 
of my heart, and my portion for ever." 

The lesson, my friends, which these reflections lay 
before us, is this : to learn that we are all partakers of 
one lot, children of one Father; to learn in whatso- 
ever state we are, therewith to be content, and therein 
to be grateful. If you are ever tempted to discontent 
and murmuring, ask yourself, ask the Spirit within 
you, formed for happiness, for glory and virtue, of 
what you shall complain. Ask the ten thousand mer- 
cies of your lives, of what you shall complain : or go 
and ask the bounties of nature ; ask the sun that 
shines cheerfully upon you ; ask the beneficent seasons 
as they roll, of what you shall complain ; ask — ask of 
your Maker — but God forbid that you or I should be 
guilty of the heinous ingratitude ! No, my friends, 
let us fix our thoughts rather, upon the full and over- 
flowing beneficence of heaven — upon the love of God. 
Let us fix our affections upon it, and then we shall 



84 ON INEQUALITY IN THE LOT OF LIFE. 



have a sufficiency ; then, though some may want and 
others may complain ; though dissatisfaction may prey 
upon the worldly, and envy may corrode the hearts of 
the jealous and discontented ; for us there shall be a 
sufficiency indeed ; for us there shall be a treasure 
which the world cannot give, nor change, nor disturb — 
"an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled, and that 
fadeth not away." 



DISCOURSE VI. 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



ROMANS VIII. 20. For the creature — that is man — was 

MADE SUBJECT TO VANITY — THAT IS TO SUFFERING NOT WIL- 
LINGLY, BUT BY REASON OF HIM — OR AT THE WILL OF HIM — 
WHO HATH SUBJECTED THE SAME IN HOPE. 

In considering the spiritual philosophy of life, we can- 
not avoid the problem of human misery. The reality 
presses us on every side, and philosophy demands to sit 
in judgment on the fact. 

I have often wondered that, with such themes as are 
presented to the pulpit, it could have ever been dull ; still 
more that it should be proverbially dull. So practical are 
these themes, so profound, so intimate with all human ex- 
perience, that I cannot conceive, what is to be understood, 
save through utter perversion, by a dull religion, a dull 
congregation, or a dull pulpit If there were an invading 
army just landed upon our shores ; if there were a con- 
flagration or a pestilence sweeping through our city, and 
we were assembled here to consider Avhat was to be done 
— in all seriousness and most advisedly do I say, that no 



86 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



questions could be raised, on such an occasion, more vital 
to our welfare, than those which present themselves to us 
here, on every Sunday. Take off the covering of outward 
form and demeanor from the heart of society, and what do 
we see ? Is there not a struggle and a war going on — not 
upon our borders, but in the midst of us — in our dwellings, 
and in our very souls ? — a war, not for territory, nor for 
visible freedom ; but for happiness, for virtue, for inward 
freedom ! Are not misery and vice, as they were fire and 
pestilence, pressing, urging, threatening to sweep through 
this city, every day ? Is not an interest involved in every 
day's action, thought, purpose, feeling, that is dearer than 
merchandize, pleasure, luxury, condition — dearer than 
life itself? 

Does any one say, that religion is some abstract con- 
cern, some visionary matter, fit only for weak enthusiasts 
or doting fools — which has nothing to do with him nor 
with his real welfare ; a thing indifferent — gone and given 
over to indifference, — beyond all hope of recovery ; in 
which he cannot, for his life, interest himself? Ay, proud 
philosopher ! or vain worldling ! — sayest thou that ? Is 
misery something abstract — with which thou canst not 
interest thyself? Is sin — that source of misery — is the 
wrong thought, the wrong deed— the deed folded, muffled 
in darkness, the thought shut up in the secret breast, 
which neither flashing eye nor flushing check may tell — 
is this, I say, something abstract and indifferent? And is 
the holy peace of conscience, the joy of virtue, a thing for 
which a human being need not — cannot care ? Nay, 
these are the great, invisible, eternal realities of our life 
— of our very nature ! 

I have said that suffering, as the most stupendous fact 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



87 



in human experience, as the profoundest problem in our 
religious philosophy, presses us on every side. I will not 
mock you with formal proofs of its existence. And do not 
think either, that on this subject, I will go into detail or 
description. One may easily understand human expe- 
rience — interpret the universal consciousness — too well, 
to think that either needful or tolerable. I will not speak 
of sicknesses or disappointments or bereavements, many 
though they are. I will not speak of the minds — more in 
number than we think — that bear the one, solitary, deep- 
embosomed grief; 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws, 
In dark shade alike o'er their joys and their woes, 
To which life nothing brighter nor darker can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 

I will not speak of the sighing that rises up from all the 
world, for a happiness unfound. But ] point you to that 
which is seldom expressed — to that which lies deeper 
than all — that eternal want — which lies as a heavy resi- 
duum at the bottom of the cup of life — which albeit un- 
perceived, amidst the flowings and gushing? of pleasure, 
yet when the waters are low, ever disturbs that fountain- 
head, that living cup of joy, with impatience, anxiety and 
blind up-heaving effort after something good. Yes, the 
creature, the human being is made subject to this. There 
is a wanting and a wanting, and an ever wanting, of what 
is never — never on earth — to be obtained ! For let us 
be just here. Religion itself does not altogether assuage 
that feeling ; for even we ourselves, says the Apostle, 
groan within ourselves. No ; religion itself does not sup- 
press that groan ; though it does show, and therein is a 



88 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



most blessed visitation, that it can satisfy that feeling as 
nothing else can, and that it has in it, the elements for 
satisfying it fully and infinitely. 

I dwell somewhat upon this point as a matter of fact, 
my brethren, because I conceive that it is one office of 
the preacher, as it is of the poet and philosopher, to un- 
fold the human heart and nature, more fully to itself. 
Strange as the opinion may be thought, I do not believe 
that men generally know how unhappy, at any rate how 
far from happiness, they are. That stupendous fact — the 
soul's misery — is covered up with business, cares, plea- 
sures and vanities. Were human life unveiled to its 
depths — were the soul — disrobed of all overlayings and 
debarred from all opiates — to come down, down to its own 
naked resources, it seems to me at times, that religion 
would need no other argument. With such apprehension 
at least as I have of this subject, I feel obliged to preach, 
as to some, and not a few, who not having taken the re- 
ligious view of their existence, have come to look upon 
life with a dull and saddened eye. I believe there are not 
a few — it may be that they are of the more solitary in the 
world, and who have not as many stirring objects and 
prospects in life as others — who look upon the path that 
stretches before them as cheerless, and threatening to be 
more and more so as it advances ; who say in their silent 
thoughts, " I shall live, perhaps, too long ! I shall live, 
perhaps, till I am neglected, passed by, forgotten ! I shall 
live possibly, till I am a burthen to others and to myself ; 
Oh ! what may my state be, before I die ! " 

Yes, " the creature was made subject to misery and 
if you will find a rational being, not under that law, you 
must seek him, without the bounds of this world. 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



89 



To this case then, to this great problem involved in hu- 
man existence — let us give our thoughts this evening. 

And in the first place, I would say, let not the vast 
amount of happiness in this world, be forgotten in the 
sense of its miseries. 

They who say that this is a miserable world, or that 
this is a miserable life, say not well. It is misanthropy, 
or a diseased imagination only, that says this. Life is 
liable to misery, but misery is not its very being ; it is 
not a miserable existence. Witness — I know not what 
things to say, or how many. The eye is opened to a 
world of beauty, and to a heaven — all sublimity and love- 
liness. The ear heareth tones and voices that touch the 
heart with joy, with rapture. The great, wide atmosphere, 
breathes upon us — bathes us with softness and fragrance. 
Then look deeper. How many conditions are happy ! 
Childhood is happy ; and youth is prevailingly happy : 
and prosperity hath its joy, and wealth its satisfaction ; 
and the warm blood that flows in the ruddy cheek and 
sinewy arm of honest poverty, is a still better gift. No 
song is so hearty and cheering— none that steals forth 
from the windows of gay saloons — as the song of honest 
labor among the hills and mountains. Oh ! to be a man 
— with the true energies and affections of a man — all men 
feel it to be good. To be a healthful, strong, true-hearted, 
and loving man — how much better is it, than to be the 
minion, or master, of any condition — lord, land-grave, 
king, or Caesar ! How many affections too are happy — 
gratitude, generosity, pity, love, and the consciousness of 
being beloved ! And to bow the heart, in lowliness and 
adoration, before the Infinite, all-blessing, ever-blessed 
One — to see in the all surrounding brightness and glory, 
8 



90 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



not beauty and majesty only, but the all-Beautiful, all- 
Majestic, all-Conscious Mind and Spirit oflove — this is 
to be filled with more than created fullness — it is to be 
filled with all the fullness of God ! 

A world where such things are — a world above all, 
where such a presence is — seemeth to me, a goodly 
world. 1 look around upon it, I meditate upon it, I feel 
its blessings and beatitudes ; and I say, surely it is a 
world of plenteousness and beauty and gladness, of loves 
and friendships, of blessed homes and holy altars, of 
sacred communions and lofty aspirations and immortal 
prospects ; and I remember that He who made it, looked 
upon it, and saw that it was very good. And strange it 
seemeth, indeed, to our earlier contemplation of it, that 
in such a world, and beneath the bright skies, there 
should be the dark stroke of calamity — a serpent winding 
through this Eden of our existence. 

But it is here ; and now let us draw nearer, and behold 
this wonder beneath the heavens — misery! 

What is its nature 1 What account are we to take of 
it ? What are we to think of it 1 On this point, I must 
pray your attention to something of detail and specula- 
tion ; though I must be, necessarily, brief. 

What then is the nature of misery ? Is it an evil prin- 
ciple, or a good principle in the universe ? Is it designed 
to do us harm, or to do us good ? Doubtless the latter ; 
and this can be shown without any very extended or la- 
borious argument. 

Misery then, evidently springs from two causes — from 
the perfection of our nature, and from the imperfection of 
our treatment of it — that is, from our ignorance, error, 
and sin. 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



91 



I say, that misery springs, first, from the perfection or 
excellence of our nature. Thus remorse, a pained con- 
science — that greatest, and though half-benumbed, most 
wide-spread of all miser}' — never would afflict us, had we 
not a moral nature. Make us animals, and we should 
feel nothing of this. So of our intellectual nature — let 
poor, low instinct take its place, and we should never suf- 
fer from ignorance, error, or mistake. And our very bo- 
dies owe many of their sufferings and diseases to the 
delicacy of our nerves, fibres, and senses. Gird a man 
with the mail of leviathan —arm him with hoofs and claws 
— and he would have but few hurts, diseases, or pains. 
But now he is clothed with these vails of living tissues — 
with this vesture of sensitive feeling, spread all over his 
frame — that his whole body may be an exquisite instru- 
ment of communication with the whole surrounding uni- 
verse ; that earth, air, sky, waters, all their visions, all 
their melodies, may visit his soul through every pore, and 
every sense. In such a frame, suffering evidently is the 
incident, not the intent. And then, in fine, if you ask, 
whence comes this ever-craving desire of more — more; 
more happiness, more good, more of every thing that it 
grasps ; what does this show primarily, but the extent of 
the grasp, the largeness of the capacity, the greatness of 
the nature 1 That universal sighing, of which I have 
spoken, which is for ever saying, " who will show me any 
good?" comes not from the dens and keeps of animals, 
but from the dwellings of thoughtful, meditative, and im- 
mortal men. 

But in the next place, I say, that our misery cometh 
from the imperfection of our treatment of this elevated 
and much-needing nature — from our ignorance, error, 



92 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



and sin. We do not satisfy this nature, and it suffers, 
from vague, ever-craving want. We cannot satisfy it 
perhaps ; which only the more shows its greatness ; but 
we do not, what we can, to satisfy it. We wound it too, 
by transgression, and it groans over the abuse. We err 
perhaps from want of reflection, and the consequences 
teach us wisdom. The child that puts his hand in the 
fire, will not put it there again. A cut finger is a brief 
lesson — a short copy writ in blood — to teach discretion. 
The man is taught to transfer that lesson to the whole 
scene of life. All elements, all the laws of things around 
us, minister to this end; and thus, through the paths of 
painful error and mistake, it is the design of providence 
to lead us to truth and happiness. 

Is then, the principle of misery in this view, an evil 
principle ? If erring but taught us to err ; if mistakes 
confirmed us in imprudence ; if the pains of imperfection 
only fastened its bonds upon us, and the miseries of sin 
had a natural tendency to make us its slaves, then were 
all this suffering only evil. But the evident truth, on the 
contrary, is, that it all tends and is designed, to produce 
amendment, improvement. This so clearly results from 
the principles of reason, and is so uniformly sustained by 
the testimony of scripture, that I do not think it necessary 
to quote from the one, nor any farther to argue from the 
other. 

Misery then is a beneficent principle in the universe. 
He who subjected the creature to misery, subjected him 
in hope. There is brightness beyond that dark cloud. 
It is not an inexplicable, unutterable, implacable, dark 
doom, — this ministration of misery ; it is meant for good. 
It is meant to be a ministration to virtue and to happiness. 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



93 



I say, to virtue and happiness. These are the speci- 
fications of what I mean, when I say that suffering is a 
beneficent principle. It springs from the perfection or 
excellence of our nature, and thus far certainly, all is well 
with our argument. It springs from imperfection in our 
treatment of it ; but it is designed to remove that imper- 
fection ; and still therefore the path of our argument 
though it lead over desolations and ruins is clear and 
bright. But still further I say, that it is not an abstract 
argument ; a mere fair theory having no foundation in 
truth and fact. 

I will reason from your own experience. The pained 
thought — the painful feeling in you — tell me what it is, 
and I will tell you, how it is made to work out good for 
you. Is it ennui, satiety, want? All this urges and com- 
pels you to seek for action, enlargement, supply. Is it 
that most sad and painful conviction — the conviction of 
deficiency or of sin ? This directly teaches you to seek 
for virtue, improvement — for pardon, and the blessedness 
of pardon. Is it the sorrow of unrequited affection, or a 
sighing for friendship, in this cold and selfish world too 
seldom found ? This is an occasion for the loftiest gene- 
rosity, magnanimity and candor. Is it sickness or bereave- 
ment — the body's pain or the heart's desolation ? Forti- 
tude, faith, patience, trust in heaven, the hope of heaven— 
these are so much meant as the end, that, indead, there are 
no other resources for pain and deprivation. 

And these happy results, I say, have not failed to be 
produced in the experience of multitudes. It is no vision- 
ary dreaming of which I have spoken, but a matter of fact. 
Even as Christ was made perfect through sufferings, so 
are his followers. How many have said, in their thoughts, 
*8 



94 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



when at last the true light has broken upon them — " Ah ! 
it is no contradiction — the dark path does lead to light ; 
pain is a means of pleasure ; misery of happiness ; peni- 
tential grief, of virtue; loss, deprivation, sorrow, are the 
elements — or rather they are the means — of all that is best 
in my character ; it is fortunate for me that I have suffer- 
ed ; it is good for me that I have been afflicted ; it is better, 
— how far better with me now, than if I had been always 
and only happy." 

Nay, and even from that comparison , by which past 
suffering enhances all present and coming enjoyment, I 
could draw an argument almost sufficient for its vindica- 
tion in the great scheme of providence. The pains of a 
sick and dying child, are often referred to, as the most 
mysterious things in providence ; but that child, it should 
be remembered, may be, and probably, will be, happier 
forever, for that dark cloud that brooded over the cradle of 
its infancy. And for myself I must say, that if I were now 
standing on the verge of a tried life, with the prospect of 
everlasting happiness before me, I should not regret that 
I had been a sufferer ; I should count it all joy rather, 
and be sure that my eternal joy would be dearer for it. 

But this is not, it is true, the chief consideration. Suf- 
fering is the discipline of virtue — that which nourishes, 
invigorates, perfects it. Suffering, I repeat, is the disci- 
pline of virtue ; of that which is infinitely better than hap- 
piness, and yet which embraces all essential happiness in 
it. Virtue is the prize, of the severely contested race, of 
the hard-fought battle ; and it is worth all the strifes and 
wounds of the conflict. 

This is the view, which we ought, I think, manfully 
and courageously to take of our present condition. Partly 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



95 



from our natural weakness, partly from want of reflection, 
and partly from the discouraging aspects which infidel 
philosophy and ascetic superstition, have thrown over hu- 
man life, we have acquired a timidity, a pusillanimity, a 
peevishness, a habit of complaining, which enhances all 
our sorrows. Dark enough they are, without needing to 
be darkened by gloomy theories. Enough do we tremble 
under them, without requiring the misgivings of cherished 
fear and weakness. Philosophy, religion, virtue should 
speak to man — not in a voice, all pity — not in a voice, all 
terror — but rather in that trumpet tone that arouses and 
cheers the warrior to battle. 

With a brave and strong heart should man go forth to 
battle with calamity. He shall not let it be his master, 
but rather shall he master it — yea, he shall be as an arti- 
ficer, who taketh in his hand an instrument to work out 
some beautiful work. When Sir Walter Ralagh took in 
his hand the axe, that was in a few moments to deprive him 
of life, and felt its keen edge, he said, smiling, " this is a 
sharp medicine, but it will cure all diseases." Indeed the 
manner in which the brave English Noblemen and Clergy 
of the olden time, went to death, even when it was to ap- 
pease the jealousy or wrath of unjust monarchs, is illustra- 
tive of the spirit I would recommend. Fortitude, manli- 
ness, cheerfulness, with modesty and humility, dressed 
them, even on the scaffold, in robes of eternal honor. And 
surely he who takes an instrument in his hand, which is 
not to slay him, but with which he may work out the 
model and perfection of every virtue in him, should take it 
with resolution and courage ; should say, " with this sore 
pain or bitter sorrow, is a good and noble work for me to 
do, and well and nobly will I strive to do it. I will not 



96 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



blench nor fly from what my Father above, has appointed 
me. I will not drown my senses and faculties with opi- 
ates to escape it. 1 will not forsake the post of trial and 
peril." Do you remember that noble boy who stood on the 
burning deck at the battle of Nile? Many voices around 
said, "come down! — come away ! " But the confiding 
child said, " father, shall I come ? " Alas ! that father's 
voice was hushed in death ; and his child kept his post till 
he sunk in the whelming flame. Oh ! noble child ! thou 
teachest us firmly to stand in our lot, till the great word 
of providence bids us fly, or bids us sink ! 

But while I speak thus, think me not insensible to the 
severity of man's sufferings. I know what human nerves 
and sinews and feelings are. When the sharp sword 
enters the very bosom, the iron enters the very soul — I 
see what must follow. I see the uplifted hands, the writhen 
brow, the written agony in the eye. But God's mercy, 
which "tempers the blast to the shorn lamb," does not 
suffer these to be the ordinary and permanent forms of 
affliction. No, thou sittest down in thy still chamber, 
and sad memories come there, or it may be, strange trials 
gather under thy brooding thought. Thou art to die ; or 
thy friend must die ; or worse still, thy friend is faithless. 
Or thou sayest that coming life is dark and desolate. 
And now as thou sittest there, I will speak to thee ; and I 
say — though sighs will burst from thy almost broken 
heart, yet when they come back in echoes from the silent 
walls, let them teach thee. Let them tell thee that God 
wills not thy destruction, thy suffering for its own sake — 
wills thee not — cannot will thee, any evil ; how could 
that thought come from the bosom of infinite love ! No, 
let thy sorrows tell thee, that God wills thy repentance, 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



97 



thy virtue, thy happiness, thy preparation for infinite hap- 
piness ! Let that thought spread holy light through thy 
darkened chamber. That which is against thee, is not 
as that which is for thee. Calamity, a dark speck in thy 
sky, seemeth to be against thee ; but God's goodness, the 
all embracing light and power of the universe, forever 
lives, and shines around thee and for thee. 

<f Evil and good, before him stand 
Their mission to perform*" 

The angel of gladness is there ; but the angel of afflic- 
tion is there too — and both alike for good. May the angel 
of gladness visit us as often as is good for us ' — I pray for 
it. But that angel of affliction ! what shall we say to it 1 
Shall we not say — " come thou too, when our Father will- 
eth — come thou, when need is — with saddened brow and 
pitying eye, come ; and take us on thy wings, and bear 
us up to hope, to happiness, to heaven — to that presence 
where is fullness of joys — to that right hand, where are 
pleasures for evermore !" 

There is one further thought which I must not fail to 
submit to you, on this subject, before I leave it. The 
greatness of our sufferings, points to a correspondent great- 
ness in the end to be gained. When I see what men are 
suffering around me, I cannot help feeling that it was 
meant not only, that they should be far better than they 
are, but far better than often think of being. The end 
must rise higher and brighter before us, before we can 
look through this dark cloud of human calamity. The 
struggle, the wounds, the carnage and desolation of a bat- 
tle, would overwhelm me with horror, if it were not fought 



98 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



for freedom, for the fire-side — to protect infancy from 
ruthless butchery, and the purity of our homes from bru- 
tal wrong. So is the battle of this life, a bewildering 
maze of misery and despair, till we see the high prize 
that is set before it. You would not send your son to 
travel through a barren and desolate wilderness, or to 
make a long and tedious voyage to an unhealthy clime, 
but for some great object : say, to make a fortune there- 
by. And any way, it seems to your parental affection, 
a strange and almost cruel proceeding. Nor would the 
merciful Father of life, have sent his earthly children to 
struggle through all the sorrows, the pains and perils of 
this world, but to attain to the grandeur of a moral fortune, 
worth all the strife and endurance. No, all this is not 
ordained in vain, nor in reckless indifference to what we 
suffer, but for an end, for a high end, for an end higher 
than we think for. Troubles, disappointments, afflictions, 
sorrows, press us on every side, that we may rise up- 
ward, upward, ever upward. And believe me, in thus 
rising upward, you shall find the very names that you 
give to calamity, gradually changing. Misery, strictly 
speaking and in its full meaning, does not belong to a 
good mind. Misery shall pass into suffering, and suffer- 
ing into discipline, and discipline into virtue, and virtue 
into heaven. So let it pass with you. Bend now patient- 
ly and meekly, in that lowly " worship of sorrow,'' till 
in God's time, it become the worship of joy — of propor- 
tionably higher joy — in that world where there shall be 
no more sorrow nor pain nor crying — where all tears 
shall be wiped from your eyes — where beamings of hea- 
ven in your countenance, shall grow brighter by compari- 
son with all the darkness of earth. 



ON THE MISERIES OF LIFE. 



99 



And remember too, that your fore-runner unto that 
blessed life, passed through this same worship of sorrow. 
A man of sorrows was that Divine Master, and acquaint- 
ed with grief. This is the great Sabbath of the year* that 
commemorates his triumph over sorrow and pain and 
death. And what were the instruments, the means, the 
ministers of that very victory — that last victory ? The 
rage of men, and the fierceness of torture ; arraignment 
before enemies — mocking, smiting, scourging ; the thorny 
crown, the bitter cross, the barred tomb ! With these 
he fought, through these he conquered, and from these he 
rose to heaven. And believe me, in something must 
every disciple be like the master. Clothed in some ves- 
ture of pain, of sorrow or of affliction, must he fight the 
great battle and win the great victory. When I stand in 
the presence of that high example, I cannot listen to poor, 
unmanly, unchristian complainings. I would not have 
its disciples account too much of their griefs. Rather 
would I say, courage ! ye that bear the great, the sublime 
lot of sorrow ! It is not forever that ye suffer. It is not 
for naught, that ye suffer. It is not without end, that ye 
suffer. God wills it. He spared not his own Son from 
it. God wills it. It is the ordinance of his wisdom for 
us. Nay, it is the ordinance of Infinite love, to procure 
for us an infinite glory and beatitude. 



Easter Sunday. 



DISCOURSE VII. 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



PSALM LXXI. 17. O God, thou hast taught me from 

MY YOUTH. 

Life is a school. This world is a house of instruc- 
tion. It is not a prison nor a penitentiary, nor a palace 
of ease, nor an amphitheatre for games and spectacles ; 
it is a school. And this view of life is the only one that 
goes to the depths of the philosophy of life — the only one 
that answers the great question, solves the great problem 
of life. For what is life given ? If for enjoyment alone, 
if for suffering merely, it is a chaos of contradictions. 
But if for moral and spiritual learning, then everything 
is full of signifiicance — full of wisdom. And this view 
too, is of the utmost practical importance. It immediate- 
ly presents to us and presses upon us the question — what 
are we learning ? And is not this, truly, the great ques- 
tion. When your son comes home to you at the annual 
vacation, it is the first question in your thoughts concern- 
ing him ; and you ask him, or you ask for the certificates 
and testimonials of his teachers, to give you some evi- 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



101 



dence of his learning. At every passing turn in the great 
school of life, also, this is the all-important question. 
What has a man got, from the experience, discipline, op- 
portunity of any past period? Not, what has he gathered 
together in the shape of any tangible good ; but what has 
he got — in that other and eternal treasure-house— his 
mind ! Not, what of outward accommodation the literal 
scholar has had, should we think it much worth our while 
to inquire ; not whether his text books had been in splen- 
did bindings ; not whether his study-table had been of 
rich cabinet-work, and his chair softly cushioned ; not 
whether the school-house in which he had studied, were 
of majestic size, or adorned with columns and porticoes ; 
let him have got a good education, and it would be com- 
paratively of little moment, how or where he got it. 
We should not ask what honors he had obtained, but as 
proofs of his progress. Let him have graduated at the 
most illustrious university, or have gained, through some 
mistake, its highest distinctions, and still be essentially 
deficient in mind or in accomplishment, and that fatal 
defect would sink into every parent's heart, as a heavy 
and unalleviated disappointment. And are such ques- 
tions and considerations any less appropriate to the great 
school of life ; whose entire course is an education for 
virtue, happiness, and heaven ? " O God !" exclaims the 
Psalmist, "thou hast taught me from my youth." 

Life, I repeat, is a school. The periods of life, are its 
terms ; all human conditions are but its forms ; all human 
employments its lessons. Families are the primary de- 
partments of this moral education ; the various circles of 
society, its advanced stages ; kingdoms are its universi- 
ties ; the world is but the material structure, built for the 

9 



102 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



administration of its teachings ; and it is lifted up in the 
heavens and borne through its annual circuits, for no end 
but this. 

Life, I say again, is a school : and all its periods, in- 
fancy, youth, manhood, and age, have their appropriate 
tasks in this school. 

With what an early care, and wonderful apparatus, does 
Providence begin the work of human education ! An in- 
fant being is cast upon the lap of nature, not to be sup- 
ported or nourished only, but to be instructed. The 
world is its school. All elements around, are its teachers. 
Long ere it is placed on the first form before the human 
master, it has been at school ; insomuch that a distinguish, 
ed statesman has said with equal truth and originality, that 
he had probably obtained more ideas by the age of five 
or six years, than he has acquired ever since. And what 
a wonderful ministration is it ! What mighty masters 
are there for the training of infancy, in the powers of sur- 
rounding nature ! With a finer influence than any hu- 
man dictation, they penetrate the secret places of that em- 
bryo soul, and bring it into life and light. From the soft 
breathings of Spring to the rough blasts of Winter, each 
one pours a blessing upon its favorite child, expanding its 
frame for action, or fortifying it for endurance. You 
seek for celebrated schools and distinguished teachers for 
your children ; and it is well. Or you cannot afford to 
give them these advantages, and you regret it. But con- 
sider what you have. Talk we of far-sought and expen- 
sive processes of education ? That infant eye hath its 
master in the sun ; that infant ear is attuned by the melo- 
dies and harmonies of the wide, the boundless creation. 
The goings on of the heavens and the earth, are the 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



103 



courses of childhood's lessons. The shows that are paint- 
ed on the dome of the sky and on the uplifted mountains, 
and on the spreading plains and seas, are its pictured 
diagrams. Immensity, infinity, eternity, are its teachers. 
The great universe is the shrine, from which oracles — 
oracles by day and by night — are forever uttered. Well 
may it be said that " of such " — of beings so cared for — 
" is the kingdom of heaven." Well and fitly is it written 
of him, who comprehended the wondrous birth of humani- 
ty and the gracious and sublime providence of heaven 
over it, that he took little children in his arms and blessed 
them. 

So begins the education of man in the school of life. 
It were easy, did the time permit, to pursue it into its 
successive stages; into the period of youth, when the 
senses not yet vitiated, are to be refined into grace and 
beauty, and the soul is to be developed into reason and 
virtue ; of manhood, when the strength of the ripened pas- 
sions is to be held under the control of wisdom, and the 
matured energies of the higher nature, are to be directed 
to the accomplishment of worthy and noble ends ; of age, 
which is to finish with dignity, the work begun with ar- 
dor ; which is to learn patience in weakness, to gather 
up the fruits of experience into maxims of wisdom, to 
cause virtuous activity to subside into pious contempla- 
tion, and to gaze upon the visions of heaven, through 
the parting vails of earth. 

But in the next place, life presents lessons in its various 
pursuits and conditions, in its ordinances and events. 
Riches and poverty, gaieties and sorrows, marriages and 
funerals, the ties of life bound or broken, fit and fortunate 
or untoward and painful, are all lessons. They are not 



104 



ON" THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



only appointments, but they are lessons. They are not 
things which must be, but things which are meant. 
Events are not blindly and carelessly flung together, in 
a strange chance-medley : providence is not schooling 
one man, and another, screening from the fiery trial of 
its lessons ; it has no rich favorites nor poor victims ; 
one event happeneth to all ; one end, one design, con- 
cerneth, urgeth all men. 

Hast thou been prosperous ? Thou hast been at 
school ; that is all ; thou hast been at school. Thou 
thoughtest perhaps, that it was a great thing, and that 
thou wert some great one : but thou art only just a pupil. 
Thou thoughtest that thou wast master and hadst nothing 
to do but to direct and command ; but I tell thee that 
there is a Master above thee ; the Master of life ; and 
that He looks not at thy splendid state nor thy many pre- 
tensions ; not at the aids and appliances of thy learning ; 
but simply at thy learning. As an earthly teacher puts 
the poor boy and the rich, upon the same form, and knows 
no difference between them but their progress ; so it is 
with thee and thy poor neighbor. What then hast thou 
learnt from thy prosperity \ This is the question that I 
am asking, that all men are asking, when any one has 
suddenly grown prosperous, or has been a long time so. 
And I have heard men say in a grave tone, " he cannot 
bear it! — he has become passionate, proud, self sufficient, 
and disagreeable." Ah ! fallen, disgraced man ! even 
in the world's account. But what, I say again, hast thou 
learnt from prosperity ? Moderation, temperance, can- 
dor, modesty, gratitude to God, generosity to man 1 "Well 
done, good and faithful ; thou hast honor with heaven 
and with men. But what, again I say, hast thou learnt 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



105 



from thy prosperity ? Selfishness, self-indulgence and 
sin? — -to forget or overlook thy less fortunate fellow? — 
to forget thy God 1 Then wert thou an unworthy and 
dishonored being, though thou hadst been nursed in the 
bosom of the proudest affluence, or hadst taken thy de- 
grees from the lineage of an hundred noble descents — 
yes, as truly dishonored, before the eye of heaven, though 
dwelling in splendor and luxury, as if thou wert lying, the 
victim of beggary and vice by the hedge or upon the 
dung-hill- It is the scholar, not the school, at which the 
most ordinary human equity looks ; and let us not think 
that the equity of heaven will look beneath that lofty 
mark. 

But art thou, to whom I speak, a poor man 1 Thou, 
too, art at school. Take care that thou learn, rather than 
complain. Keep thine integrity, thy candor and kindli- 
ness of heart. Beware of envy ; beware of bondage ; 
keep thy self-respect. The body's toil is nothing. Be- 
ware of the mind's drudgery and degradation. I do not 
say, be always poor. Better thy condition if thou canst. 
But be more anxious to better thy soul. Be willing, 
while thou art poor, patiently to learn the lessons of po- 
verty ; fortitude, cheerfulness, contentment, trust in God. 
The tasks I know are hard ; deprivation, toil, the care 
of children. Thoum ust wake early: thy children, per- 
haps, will wake thee ; thou canst not put them away from 
thee to a distant nursery. Fret not thyself because of 
this ; but cheerfully address thyself to thy task ; learn 
patience, calmness, self-command, disinterestedness, 
love. With these the humblest dwelling may be hallowed, 
and so made dearer and nobler, than the proudest man- 
sion of self-indulgent ease and luxury. But above all 



106 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



things, if thou art poor, beware that thou lose not thine in- 
dependence. Cast not thyself, a creature poorer than 
poor, an indolent, helpless, despised beggar, on the kind- 
ness of others. Choose to have God for thy master, 
rather than man. Escape not from his school, either by 
dishonesty or alms-taking, lest thou fall into that state 
worse than disgrace, where thou shalt have no respect 
for thyself. Thou mayest come out of that school ; yet 
beware that thou come not out as a truant, but as a noble 
scholar. The world itself doth not ask of the candidates 
for its honors, whether they studied in a palace or a cot- 
tage, but what they have acquired and what they are ; 
and heaven, let us again be assured, will ask no inferior 
title to its glories and rewards. 

Again, the entire social condition of humanity is a 
school. The ties of society affectingly teach us to love 
one another. A parent, a child, a husband or wife or 
associate, without love, is nothing but a cold marble 
image — or rather a machine, an annoyance, a something 
in the way to vex and pain us. The social relations not 
only teach love but demand it. Show me a society, no 
matter how intelligent, accomplished and refined, but 
where love is not, — where there is ambition, jealousy and 
distrust, not simplicity, confidence and kindness ; and 
you show me an unhappy society. All will complain of 
it. Its punctilious decorum, its polished insincerity, its 
" threatening urbanity," gives no satisfaction to any of 
its members. What is the difficulty ? What does it 
want 1 I answer, it wants love : and if it will not have 
that, it must surfer, and it ought to suffer. 

But the social state, also powerfully teaches modesty 
and meekness. All cannot, be great ; and nobody may 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



107 



reasonably expect all the world to be engaged with laud- 
ing his merits. All cannot be great ; and we have hap- 
pily fallen upon times, when none can be distinguished 
as a few have been in the days of senii-barbarous igno- 
rance. All cannot be great ; for then nobody were. 
The mighty mass of human claims presses down all in- 
dividual ambition. Were it not so, it were not easy to 
see where that ambition would stop. Well that it be 
schooled to reason ; and society, without knowing it, is 
an efficient master for that end. Is any one vexed and 
sore under neglect 1 Does he walk through the street 
unmarked, and say that he deserves to be saluted oftener 
and with more respect 1 Does the pang of envy shoot 
through his heart, when notice is bestowed on others, 
whom he thinks less worthy than he is ? Perhaps, so- 
ciety is unjust to him 1 What then ? What shall he do? 
What can he do, but learn humility and patience and 
quietness ! Perhaps the lesson is roughly and unkindly 
given. Then must society through its very imperfection, 
teach us to be superior to its opinion ; and our care must 
be, not to be cynical and bitter, but gentle, candid and 
affectionate still. 

Society is doubtless often right in its neglect or its con- 
demnation ; but certainly it is sometimes wrong. It 
seems to be the lot, the chance, the fortune, the accident 
of some to be known, admired, and celebrated. Adula- 
tion and praise are poured out at their feet while they 
live, and upon their tomb when they die. But thousands 
of others, intrinsically just as interesting, with sentiments 
that mount as high on earth, and will nourish as fair in 
heaven, live unpraised and die unknown. Kay, and the 
very delicacy of some minds forbids their being generally 



10S 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



known and appreciated. Tact, facility, readiness, con- 
versation, personal recommendations, manners, and con- 
nections help on some ; and all these may be wanting to 
minds that have none the less worth and beauty. Who 
then would garner up his heart in the opinion of this 
world 1 Yet neither let us hate it ; but let its imperfec- 
tion minister to our perfection. 

There are also broken ties ; and sometimes the holiest 
ties wear themselves out; like imperfect things, alas! as 
they are. What, then, is to be learnt? I answer, a great 
lesson. What is to be done 1 A great duty. To be just; 
to be true ; to cherish a divine candor; to make the best 
of that which seems not well; to pour not vinegar upon the 
galling chain, but the oil of gentleness and forbearance. 
So shall many a wound be healed ; and hearts shall be 
knit together in a better bond than that of hasty impulse — 
the bond of mutual improvement, strengthening mutual 
love. 

But not to insist more at large upon the disciplinary 
character of all the conditions of life and society, let us 
consider, for a moment farther, some of its events and 
ordinances. 

Amidst all the gaiety and splendor of life there is a dark 
spot ; over its brightest carreer, there comes a sudden and 
overshadowing cloud; in the midst of its loud and restless 
activity there is a deep pause and an awful silence ; — what 
a lesson is death ! — death that stops the warm current and 
the vital breath, and freezes mortal hearts in fear and 
wonder ; death that quells all human power, and quenches 
all human pride ; death, "the dread teacher," the awful 
admonisher, that tells man of this life's frailty, and of a 
judgment to come. What a lesson is death ! Stern, cold, 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



109 



inexorable, irresistible — the collected might of the world 
cannot stay it, nor ward it off ; the breath that is parting 
from the lips of king, or beggar — the breath that scarcely 
stirs the hushed air — that little breath — the wealth of em- 
pires cannot buy it, nor bring it back for a moment. What 
a lesson is this to proclaim our own frailty, and a power 
beyond us ! It is a fearful lesson; it is never familiar. 
That which lays its hand upon all, walks through the 
earth, as a dread mystery. Its mandate falls upon the ear 
in as fearful accents now, as when it said to the first man, 
" thou shalt die ! dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou 
return." — It is a universal lesson. It is read every where. 
Its message comes every year, every day. The years past 
are filled with its sad and solemn mementos ; and could a 
prophet now stand in the midst of us and announce the fu- 
ture, to more than one of us, would he say, " set thy house 
in order ; for this year thou shalt die." Yes, death is a 
teacher. I have seen upon the wall of our school-rooms, 
the diagram, that sets forth some humble theorem ; but 
what a hand-writing is traced by the finger of death upon 
the Avails of every human habitation ! And what does it 
teach? Duty; to act our part well; to fulfil the work 
assigned us. Other questions, questions of pride and am- 
bition and pleasure, may press themselves upon a man's 
life ; but when he is dying — when he is dead, there is but 
one question — but one question — has he lived well ? I 
have seen an old man upon his bier ; and I said, " hath he 
done the work of many years faithfully ? hath he come to 
his end like a shock of corn fully ripe % Then all is well. 
There is no evil in death, but what life makes." I have 
seen one fall amidst life's cares, manly or matronly, and 
when the end came not like a catastrophe — not as unlooked 



110 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



for— when it came as that which had been much thought 
upon and always prepared for ; when I saw the head 
meekly bowed to the visitation or the eye raised in calm 
bright hope to heaven, or when the confidence of long in- 
timate friendship knows that it would be raised there 
though the kind veil of delirium be spread over it — I said, 
" the work is done, the victory is gained ; thanks be to 
God who giveth that victory through our Lord Jesus 
Christ." I have seen an infant form, sweetly reposing on 
its last couch, as if death had lost all its terrors, and had 
become as one of the cherubim of heaven ; and I said, " ah! 
how many live so, that they will yet wish that they had 
died, with that innocent child ! " 

Among our christian ordinances, Brethren, there is one 
that celebrates the victory over death ; and there is one, 
that is appropriate to the beginning of life. They are both 
teachers. Baptismal waters, the emblems of a purity re- 
ceived from God and to be watched over for God ; the 
consecration unto obedience to the great truths of Christi- 
anity — to the doctrine of the Father, and the Son, and the 
Holy Ghost — these teach us, parents, of a charge to be 
solemnly kept, of duties to be faithfully rendered. The 
sacramental table — what is it but an altar, set up amidst 
the realm of death, to the hope of everlasting life? To 
keep us in mind of him, who conquered death, and 
brought life and immortality to light, who gave his life a 
ransom for many, who became a curse for us that we might 
be redeemed from the curse of sin, who died that we might 
live forever — lo ! these symbols that are set forth from 
time to time in the house of God, in the school of Christ! 
Touching memorials of pain and sorrow and patient en- 



OX THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



Hi 



durance ! Blessed omens, on God's altar, of peace and 
forgiveness and glorious victory ! 

Such, my friends, are some of the lessons of the school 
of life. Indulge me in one or two observations on the 
general character of this school, and I shall have com- 
pleted my present design. 

Life is a finely attempered, and at the same time, a very- 
trying school. 

It is finely attempered ; that is, it is carefully adjusted, 
in all its arrangements and tasks, to man's powers and pas- 
sions. There is no extravagance in its teachings; nothing 
is done for the sake of present effect. It excites man, but 
it does not excite him too much. Indeed, so carefully ad- 
justed are all things to this raging love of excitement, so 
admirably fitted to hold this passion in check, and to at' 
temper all things to what man can bear,that I cannot help 
seeing in this feature of life, intrinsic and wonderful evidence 
of a wise and overruling Order. Men often complain that 
life is dull, tame and drudging. But how unwisely were 
it arranged, if it were all one gala-day of enjoyment or 
transport! And when men make their own schools of too 
much excitement, their parties, controversies, associations 
and enterprises, how soon do the heavy realities of life 
fasten upon the chariot-wheels of success when they are 
ready to take fire, and hold them back to a moderated 
movement ! 

Everything, I say, is tempered in the system of things 
to which we belong. The human passions, and the cor. 
respondent powers of impression which man possesses, are 
all kept within certain limits. 1 think sometimes of an- 
gel forms on earth ; of a gracefulness and beauty more 
than mortal ; of a flash or a glance of the eye in the elo* 



112 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



quent man, that should rend and inflame a thousand hearts, 
as lightning does the gnarled oak ; but do we not see that 
for the sensitive frame of man, enough excitement is al- 
ready provided ; that the moderated tone of things is all 
man's ear could bear ; the softened and shaded hue 
enough for his eye ; the expressions of countenance and 
gesture, such as they are, enough for his heart ! Nay, 
how often is the excitement of thought and feeling so great, 
that but for the interruptions of humble cares and trifles — 
the interpositions of a wise providence — the mind and 
frame would sink under them entirely ! It would seem 
delightful, no doubt, in the pilgrimage of life, to walk 
through unending galleries of paintings and statues ; but 
human life is not such ; it is a school. 

It is a trying school. It is a school, very trying to 
faith, to endurance and to endeavor. There are myste- 
ries in it. As to the pupil in a human school, there are 
lessons of which it does not understand the full intent and 
bearing, as he is obliged to take some things on trust ; so 
it is in the great school of providence. There are hard 
lessons to be got in this school. As the pupil is often 
obliged to bend all his faculties to the task before him, 
and tears sometimes fall on the page he is studying, so 
it is in the school of God's providence ; there are hard 
lessons in it. 

In short, the whole course of human life is a conflict 
with difficulties ; and if rightly conducted, a progress in 
improvement. In both these respects, man holds a posi- 
tion peculiar, and distinct from that of the animal races. 
They are not at school. They never improve. With 
them too, all is facility ; while with man comparatively, 
all is difficulty. Look at the ant-hill, or the hive of bees. 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



113 



See how the tenant of the one, is provided with feet, so 
constructed that he can run all over his house, outside and 
inside — no heavy and toilsome steps required to go up- 
ward or downward ; and how the wings of the other, en- 
able him to fly through the air, and achieve the journey 
of days in an hour. Man's steps compared with these, 
are the steps of toilsome endeavor. 

Why is this so ? Why is man clothed with this cum- 
brous mass of flesh ? Because it is a more perfect instru- 
ment for the mind's culture, though that end is to be 
wrought out with difficulty. Why are his steps slow and 
toilsome ? Because they are the steps of improvement. 
Why is he at school 1 That he may learn. Why is the 
lesson hard ? That he may rise high on the scale of ad- 
vancement. 

Nor is it ever too late for him to learn. This is a dis- 
tinct consideration ; but let me dwell a moment upon it 
in close. Nor, I say, is it ever too late for man to learn. 
If any man thinks that his time has gone by, let me take 
leave to contradict that dangerous assumption. Life is 
a school ; the whole of life. There never comes a time, 
even amidst the decays of age, when it is fit to lay aside 
the eagerness of acquisition or the cheerfulness of en- 
deavor. I protest utterly against the common idea of 
growing old. I hold that it is an unchristian, a heathen 
idea. It may befit those who expect to lay down and end 
their being in the grave, but not those who look upon the 
grave as the birth-place of immortality. I look for old 
age as, saving its infirmities, a cheerful and happy time. 
I think that the affections are often full as warm then, as 
they ever are. Well may the affections of piety be so ! 
They are approaching near to the rest that remaineth ; 

10 



114 



ON THE SCHOOL OF LIFE. 



they almost grasp the prize that shall crown them ; they 
are ready to say, with aged Simeon, " now let thy ser- 
vant depart." The battle is almost fought ; the victory 
is near at hand. " Why," — does any one still ask — 
" why does the battle press hard to the very end 1 Why 
is it ordained for man that he shall walk, all through the 
course of life, in patience and strife, and sometimes in 
darkness ?" Because from patience is to come perfection. 
Because, from strife is to come triumph. Because, from 
the dark cloud, is to come the lightning-flash, that opens 
the way to eternity ! 

Christian ! hast thou been faithful in the school of life? 
Art thou faithful to all its lessons ? Or hast thou, negli- 
gent man ! been placed in this great school, only to learn 
nothing, and hast not cared whether thou didst learn or 
not. Have the years passed over thee, only to witness 
thy sloth and indifference ? Hast thou been zealous to 
acquire everything, but virtue, but the favor of thy God ? 

But art thou faithful, Christian ? God help thee to be 
yet more so, in years to come. And remember for thine 
encouragement, what is written. " These things saiih 
the first and the last, who was dead and is alive ; I know 
thy works and tribulation and poverty, (but thou art rich ;) 
fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer ; be 
faithful unto death and I will give thee a crown of life." 



DISCOURSE VIII. 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 
(Preached on New Year's day.) 



JOB III. 2 — 3. And Job spake and said, let the day 

PERISH, WHEREIN I WAS BORN. 



There is a worldly habit of viewing this life, and 
especially of depreciating its value, against which, in 
this discourse, I wish to contend. It is the view of 
life which many of the heathens entertained^ and 
which better became them, than those who hold the 
faith of christians. "When we reflect," says one of 
the Grecian sages, " on the destiny that awaits man on 
earth, we ought to bedew his cradle with our tears." 
Job's contempt of life, so energetically expressed in 
the chapter from which my text is taken, was of the 
same character. We may observe, however, that Job's 
contempt of life, consisted not with the views enter- 
tained by the children of the ancient dispensation, and 
was emphatically rebuked, in common with all his 
impious complaints, in the sequel of that affecting 
story. The birth of a child among the Hebrews was 



116 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



hailed with joy, and its birth-day was made a festival' 
But there are times and seasons, events and influen- 
ces in life, which awaken in many, sentiments similar 
to those of Job, and which require to be considered. 

The sensibility of youth sometimes takes this direc- 
tion. It is true, indeed, that to the youthful mind, life 
for a while is filled with brightness and hope. It is the 
promised season of activity and enjoyment, of manly 
independence, of successful business, or of glorious 
ambition — the season of noble enterprizes and lofty 
attainments. There is a time, when the youthful fancy 
is kindling with the anticipations of an ideal world; 
when it is thinking of friendship and honor of another 
sort than those which are commonly found in the 
world ; when its promised mansion is the abode of 
perfect happiness, and its paths as they stretch into 
life, seem to it as the paths that shine brighter and 
brighter for ever. 

But over all these glowing expectations, there usu- 
ally comes, sooner or later, a dark eclipse ; and it 
is in the first shock of disappointed hope, before 
the season of youth is yet fully past, that we are 
probably exposed to take the most opposite and discon- 
solate views of life. It is here that we find real, in 
opposition to factitious sentimentalism. Before this 
great shock to early hope comes, the sentimental char- 
acter is apt to be affectation, and afterwards it is liable 
to be misanthropy. But now it is a genuine and in- 
genuous sorrow, at finding life so different from what 
it expected. There is a painful and unwelcome effort 
to give up many cherished habits of thinking about it. 
The mind encounters the chilling selfishness of the 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



117 



world, and it feels the miserable insufficiency of the 
world to satisfy its longings after happiness ; and life 
loses many of the bright hues, that had gilded its 
morning season. Indeed, when we take into account 
the unwonted and multiplied cares of this period, the 
want of that familiarity and habit which renders the 
ways and manners of life easy, the difficulties and em- 
barrassments that beset the youthful adventurer, the 
anxiety about establishing a character and taking a 
place in the world, and above all, perhaps, the want of 
a self-discipline ; when we take all this into the ac- 
count, to say nothing of the freshness of disappoint- 
ment, we may well doubt whether the period of en- 
trance into life, is the happiest, though it is commonly 
looked upon as such. It is not perhaps, till men pro- 
ceed farther in the way, that they are prepared, either 
rightly to estimate or fully to enjoy it. And it is wor- 
thy of notice in this connection, that those diseases 
which spring from mental anxiety, are accounted, by 
physicians, to be the most prevalent between the ages 
of twenty and forty. 

Manhood arrives at a conclusion unfavorable to life, 
by a different process. It is not the limited view occa- 
sioned by disappointment, that brings it to think poor- 
ly of life, but it assumes to hold the larger view taken 
by experience and reflection. It professes to have 
proved this life, and found it little worth. It has deli- 
berately made up its mind, that life is far more mise- 
rable than happy. Its employments, it finds, are tedi- 
ous, and its schemes are baffled. Its friendships are 
broken, or its friends are dead. Its pleasures pall and 
its honors fade. Its paths are beaten and familiar and 



118 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE, 



dull. It has grasped the good of life ; and every thing 
grasped loses half of its charm ; in the hand of pos- 
session every thing is shrivelled and shrunk to insig- 
nificance. 

Is this manhood, then, sad or sentimental? No; 
farthest possible from it. Sentiment, it holds to be ri- 
diculous; sadness, absurd. It smiles, in recklessness. 
It is merry, in despite. It sports away a life, not 
worth a nobler thought, or else it wears away a life, 
not worth a nobler aim, than to get tolerably through 
it. This is a worldly manhood ; and no wonder that 
its estimate of the value of existence is low and earthly. 

Poetry has often ministered to a state of mind, loft- 
ier indeed, but of a like complexion. " Life," says 
the Grecian Pindar, " is the dream of a shadow." 

"What," says the melancholy Kirk White — 

" What is this passing life ? 
A peevish April day, 
A little sun, a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away." 

The melancholy of Byron is of a darker complex- 
ion ; one might anticipate, indeed, that his misan- 
thropy, as well as gloom, would repel every reader ; 
and yet a critic has observed that this is the very 
quality which has caught and held the ear of the sym- 
pathizing world. If the world does sympathize with 
it, it is time that the christian preacher should raise 
his voice against it. One may justly feel, indeed, for 
the sufferings as well as perversions of that extraordi- 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



119 



nary mind ; but its skepticism and scorn must not be 
suffered to fling their shadow across the world, with- 
out rebuke or remonstrance. Its sufferings, indeed, 
are a striking proof, which the christian teacher might 
well adduce, of the tendency of earthly passion and 
unbelief to darken all the way of human life. 

The pulpit, also, I must allow, has fallen, under the 
charge of leaning to the dark side of things. It may be 
said perhaps, that if its instructions are to have any bias, 
it is expedient that it should lean to the dark side. But 
error or mistake is not to be vindicated by its expediency, 
or its power to affect the mind. And its expediency, in 
fact, if not its power, in this case, is to be doubted. Men 
of reflection and discernment are, and ought to be, dis- 
satisfied with disproportionate and extravagant state- 
ments, made with a view to support the claims of an as- 
cetic piety, or a cynical morality. And one mistake, the 
preacher may find is, to the hearer, an intrenchment 
strong, against a hundred of his arguments. 

It is true, also, that religious men in general, have been 
accustomed to talk gloomily of the present state. I do 
not mean such religious men as the wise and holy saints 
of old. Let the rejoicing apostles, rejoicing in the midst 
of the greatest calamities ; let the mild cheerfulness of 
their Master, stand as monuments against the perversions 
of later times. It has strangely come to be thought a 
mark of great piety towards God to disparage, if not to 
despise the state which he has ordained for us ; and the 
claims of this world have been absurdly set up, not in 
comparison, only, but in competition, with the claims of 
another ; as if both were not parts of one system ; as if 
a man could not make the best of this world and of 



120 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



another at the same time ; as if we should learn to think 
better of other works and dispensations of God, by think- 
ing meanly of these. Jesus and his apostles did not 
teach us to contemn our present condition. They taught 
that every creature and every appointment of God, is 
good, and to be received thankfully. They did not look 
upon life as so much time lost ; they did not regard its 
employments as trifles unworthy of immortal beings ; 
they did not tell their followers to fold their arms as if in 
disdain of their state and species ; but it is evident that 
they looked soberly and cheerfully upon the world, as the 
theatre of worthy action, of exalted usefulness, and of 
rational and innocent enjoyment. 

But I am considering the disparaging views of life ; and 
against these views, whether sentimental, worldly, poetical 
or religious, I must contend. I firmly maintain, that with 
all its evils, life is a blessing. There is a presumptive ar- 
gument for this, of the greatest strength. To deny that 
life is a blessing, is to destroy the very basis of all religion, 
natural and revealed • and the argument I am engaged upon 
therefore, well deserves attention. For the very foundation 
of all religion, is laid in the belief that God is good- But if 
life is an evil and a curse, there can be no such belief, ra- 
tionally entertained. The Scriptures do not prove, nor 
pretend to prove, that God is good. They assume that 
truth as already certain. But what makes it certain 1 
Where does, or can the proof come from 1 Obviously, 
from this world, and from nowhere else. Nowhere else 
can our knowledge extend, to gather proof. Nay more, 
I say t the proof must come from this life and from no- 
thing else. For it avails not — if life itself is doomed to 
be unhappy — it avails not to the argument to say that this 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



121 



world is fair and glorious. It avails not to say that this 
outward frame of things, this vast habitation of life, is 
beautiful. The architecture of an Infirmary may be 
beautiful, and the towers of a prison may be built on the 
grandest scale of architectural magnificence ; but it 
would little avail the victims of sickness or of bondage. 
And so if this life is a doomed life — doomed by its very 
condition to sufferings far greater than its pleasures ; if 
it is a curse and not a blessing ; if sighs and groans must 
rise from it, more frequent and loud, than voices of joy 
and gladness, it will avail but little that heaven spreads its 
majestic dome over our misery; that the mountain walls, 
which echo our griefs, are clothed with grandeur and 
might; or that the earth, which bears the burthen of our 
woes, is paved with granite and marble, or covered with 
verdure and beauty. 

Let him then, who says that this life is not a blessing ; 
let him who levels his satire at humanity and human ex- 
istence, as mean and contemptible ; let him who with the 
philosophic pride of a Voltaire or a Gibbon looks, upon 
this world as the habitation of a miserable race, fit only 
for mockery and scorn, or v/ho with the religious melan- 
choly of Thomas, a Kempis or of Brainard, overshadows 
this world with the gloom of his imagination till it seems a 
dungeon or a prison, which has no blessing to offer but 
escape from it — let all such consider that they are ex- 
tinguishing the primal light of faith and hope and happi- 
ness. If life is not a blessing, if the world is not a goodly 
world, if residence in it, is not a favored condition, then 
religion has lost its basis, truth its foundation in the good- 
ness of God ; then it matters not what else is true or not 
true ; speculation is vain and faith is vain ; and all that 



122 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



pertains to man's highest being, is whelmed in the ruins 
of misanthropy, melancholy and despair. 

The argument in this view is well deserving of attention. 
Considered as a merely speculative point, it is neverthe- 
less one on which every thing hangs. And this indeed is 
the consideration which I have been stating — that the 
whole superstructure of religious truth is based upon this 
foundation truth, that life is a blessing. 

And that this is not a mere assumption, I infer in the 
next place, from experience. And there are two points in 
this experience to be noticed. First, the love of life proves 
that it is a blessing. Tf it is not, why are men so attached 
to it? Will it be said, that it is "the dread of something 
after death," that binds man to life ? But make the case a 
fair one for the argument: say, for instance, that the souls 
of men sleep, after death, till the resurrection ; and would 
not almost every man rather live on, during the inter- 
mediate space, than to sink to that temporary oblivion ? 

But to refer in the next place to a consideration still 
plainer and less embarrassed ; why are we so attached to 
our local situation in life, to our home, to the spot that 
gave us birth, or to any place, no matter how unsightly or 
barren, — though it were the rudest mountain or rock, — on 
which the history of years has been written ? Will it be 
said, that it is habit which endears our residence? But 
what kind of habit ? A habit of being miserable? The 
question needs no reply. Will you refer me to the pathetic 
story of the aged prisoner of the Bastile, who, on being re- 
leased and coming forth into the world, desired to return 
to his prison ; and argue from this, that a man may learn 
to love, even, the glooms of a dungeon, provided they be- 
come habituai? But why did that aged prisoner desire to 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



123 



return % It was not because he loved the cold shadow of 
his prison- walls ; but it was, as the story informs us, be- 
cause his friends were gone from the earth ; it was because 
no living creature knew him, that the world was darker 
to him, than the gloomy dungeons of the Bastile. It 
shows how dear are the ties of kindred and society. It 
shows how strong and how sweet are those social affec- 
tions, which we never appreciate, till we are cut off from 
their joys; which glide from heart to heart, as the sun- 
beams pass unobserved, in the day-light of prosperity ; but 
if a ray of that social kindness visits the prison of our 
sickness and affliction, it comes to us like a beam of 
heaven. And though we had worn out a life in confine- 
ment, we go back again to meet that beam of heaven, the 
smile of society; and if we do not find it, we had rather 
return to the silent walls that know us, than to dwell in a 
world that knows us not. 

"But after all, and as a matter of fact, how many miseries, 
it may be said, are bound up with this life, too deeply in- 
terwoven with it, and too keenly felt, to allow it to be 
called a favored and happy life t Besides evils of common 
occurrence and account, besides sickness and pain and 
poverty, besides disappointment and bereavement and sor- 
row, how many evils are there that are not embraced in 
the common estimate ; evils that are secret and silent, that 
dwell deep in the recesses of life, that do not come forth 
to draw the public gaze or to awaken the public sympathy ! 
How many are there who never tell their grief — how 
many who spread a fair and smiling exterior over an 
aching heart ! " 

Alas ! it is but too easy to make out a strong statement: 
and yet the very strength of the statement, the strong feel- 



124 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



ing, at least, with which it is made, disproves the cynical 
argument. The truth is, and it is obvious, that misery- 
makes a greater impression upon us, than happiness. 
Why ? Because, misery is not the habit of our minds. It 
is a strange and unwonted guest, and we are more con- 
scious of its presence. Happiness — not to speak now of any 
very high quality or entirely satisfying state of mind, but 
only of a general easiness, cheerfulness and comfort — hap- 
piness, I say, dwells with us, and we forget it ; it does not 
excite us : it does not disturb the order and course of our 
thoughts. All our impressions about affliction, on the other 
hand, show that it is more rare, and at the same time, more 
regarded. It creates a sensation and stir in the world. 
When death enters among us, it spreads a groan through 
our dwellings ; it clothes them with unwonted and sympa- 
thizing grief. Thus, afflictions are like epochs in life. 
We remember them as we do the storm and earth-quake, 
because they are out of the common course of things. 
They stand like disastrous events in a table of chronology, 
recorded because they are extraordinary; and with whole 
periods of prosperity between. Thus do we mark out 
and signalize the times of calamity ; but how many happy 
days pass — unnoted periods in the table of life's chronology 
— unrecorded either in the book of memory or in the 
scanty annals of our thanksgiving? How many happy 
months are swept beneath the silent wing of time, and 
leave no name nor record in our hearts ! How little are 
we able, much as we may be disposed, to call up from the 
dim remembrances of the year that is just ended, the peace- 
ful moments, the easy sensations, the bright thoughts, the 
movements of kind and blessed affections, in which life has 
flowed on, bearing us almost unconsciously upon its bosom, 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



125 



because it has born us calmly and gently ! Sweet moments 
of quietness and affection ! glad hours of joy and hope! 
days, ye many days begun and ended in health and happi- 
ness ! times and seasons of heaven's gracious beneficence ! 
stand before us yet again, in the light of memory, and 
command us to be thankful and to prize as we ought the 
gift of life. 

But, my brethren, I must not content myself with a bare 
defence of life as against a skeptical or cynical spirit, or 
as against the errors and mistakes of religion. I must 
not content myself with a view of the palpable and ac- 
knowledged blessings of life. Life is more than what is 
palpable, or often acknowledged. I contend against the 
cynical and the superstitious disparagement of life, not 
alone as wrong and as fatal indeed to all religion ; but I 
contend against it as fatal to the highest improvement of 
life. I say, that life is not only good, but that it was made 
to be glorious. Ay, and it has been glorious in the expe- 
rience of millions. The glory of all human virtue arrays 
it. The glory of sanctity and beneficence and heroism 
is upon it. The crown of a thousand martyrdoms is upon 
its brow. 

Through this visible and sometimes darkened life, it 
was intended that the brightness of the soul should shine, 
and that it should shine through all its surrounding cares 
and labors. The humblest life which any one of us leads 
may be what has been expressively denominated " the 
life of God in the soul." It may hold a felt connection 
with its infinite source. It may derive an inexpressible 
sublimity from that connection. Yes, my Brethren, there 
may be something of God in our daily life ; something of 
11 



126 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



might in this frail inner man ; something of immortality 
in this momentary and transient being. 

This mind — I survey it with awe, with wonder — en- 
compassed with flesh, fenced around with barriers of sense ; 
yet it breaks every bound, and stretches away, on every 
side, into infinity. It is not upon the line only, of its eter- 
nal duration that it goes forth — forth from this day of its 
new annual period, through the periods of immortality — 
but its thoughts like diverging rays, spread themselves 
abroad and far, far into the boundless, the immeasurable, 
the infinite. And these diverging rays may be like cords 
to lift it up to heaven. What a glorious thing, then, is 
this life ! To know its wonderful Author — to bring down 
wisdom from the eternal stars — to bear upward its hom- 
age, its gratitude, its love to the Ruler of all worlds — what 
glory in the created universe is there, surpassing this 1 
11 Thou crownest it — it is written — thou crownest it with 
loving kindness and tender mercy : thou crownest it 
with glory and honor ; thou hast made it a little lower 
than the angelic life." 

Am I asked, then, what is life ? I say, in answer, that 
it is good. God saw and pronounced that it was good, 
when he made it. Man feels that it is good when he pre- 
serves it. It is good in the unnumbered sources of hap- 
piness around it. It is good in the ten thousand buoyant 
and happy affections within it. It is good in its connec- 
tion with infinite goodness, and in its hope of infinite glory 
beyond it. True, our life is frail in its earthly state, and 
it is often bowed down with earthly burthens ; but still it 
endures and revives and flourishes ; still it is redeemed 
from destruction, and crowned with loving kindness and 
tender mercy. Frail too, and yet strong is it, in its 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



127 



heavenly nature. The immortal is clothed with mortal- 
ity ; and the incorruptible with corruption. It is like an 
instrument formed for heavenly melody ; whose materials 
were taken indeed, from the mouldering und unsightly 
forest : but lo ! the hand of the artificer has been upon it ; 
it is curiously wrought ; it is fearfully and wonderfully 
made ; it is fashioned for every tone of gladness and 
triumph. It may be relaxed, but it can be strung again. 
It may send forth a mournful strain ; but it is formed also 
for the music of heavenly joy. Even its sadness is 
" pleasing and mournful to the soul." Even suffering is 
hallowed and dear. Life has that value, that even mis- 
ery cannot destroy it. It neutralizes grief, and makes it 
a source of deep and sacred interest. Ah ! holy hours 
of suffering and sorrow — hours of communion with the 
great and triumphant Sufferer — who that has passed 
through your silent moments of prayer and resignation 
and trust, would give you up, for all the brightness of pros- 
perity ? 

. Am I still asked what is life ? I answer, that it is a 
great and sublime gift. Those felicitations with which 
this renewed season of it is welcomed, are but a fit trib- 
ute to its value, and to the gladness which belongs to it. 
" Happy," says the general voice, " happy New-Year !" 
to all who live to see it. Life is felt to be a great and 
gracious boon, by all who enjoy its light ; and this is not 
too much felt. It is the wonderful creation of God ; and 
it cannot be too much admired. It is light sprung from 
void darkness ; it is power waked from inertness and im- 
potence ; it is being created from nothing ; well may the 
contrast enkindle wonder and delight. It is a stream from 
the infinite and overflowing goodness ; and from its first 



128 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



gushing forth to its mingling with the ocean of eternity, 
that goodness attends it. Yes : life, despite of all that 
cynics or sentamentalists say, is a great and glorious gift. 
There is gladness in its infant voices. There is joy in 
the buoyant step of its youth. There is deep satisfaction 
in its strong maturity. There is holy peace in its quiet 
age. There is good for the good ; there is virtue for the 
faithful ; there is victory for the valiant. There is spirit- 
uality for the spiritual ; and, there is, even in this humble 
life, an infinity for the boundless in desire. There are 
blessings upon its birth ; there is hope in its death ; and 
there is — to consummate all — there is eternity in its pros- 
pect. 

As I have discoursed upon this theme, it is possible that 
some may have thought that it has nothing to do with re- 
ligion ; that it is a subject merely for fine sentiments and 
for nothing more. Let me tell such a thinker that this 
subject has not only much to do with religion every way, 
but that it furnishes, in fact, a test of our religion. To 
the low-minded, debased and sensual, this life must, doubt- 
less, be something very poor, indifferent and common- 
place ; it must be a beaten path, a dull scene, shut in on 
every side, by the earthly, palpable, and gross. But 
break down the barriers of sense — open the windows of 
faith — fling wide the gates that darken the sensual world, 
and let the light of heaven pour in upon it — and then what 
is this life ? How changed is it ! — how new ! — a new 
heavens, indeed, and a new earth. Yes, this earth which 
binds one man in chains, is to the other, the starting place* 
the goal of immortality. This earth which buries one 
man in the rubbish of dull cares and wearying vanities, 
is to the other, the lofty mount of meditation, where heaven 



ON THE VALUE OF LIFE. 



129 



and infinity and eternity are spread before him and around 
him. Yes, my friend, the life thou leadest — the life thou 
thinkest of — is the interpreter of thine inward being. 
Such as life is to thee, such thou art. If it is low and 
mean, and base — if it is a mere money-getting or pleas- 
ure-seeking or honor-craving life — so art thou. Be thou 
lofty-minded, pure and holy — and life shall be to thee the 
beginning of heaven — the threshold of immortality. 



11 



DISCOURSE IX. 



life's consolation in view of death. 



JOHN XI. 25. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrec- 
tion AND THE LIFE. 

These words, my brethren, so stupendous in their 
import, so majestic in their tone — when and where 
were they uttered ? They were uttered in a world of 
the dying; in a world which is the tomb of all past 
generations ; in a world from whose dreary caverns, 
from whose dark catacombs, and alike from whose 
proud mansoleums and towering pyramids, no word 
ever issued that spake of any thing but death. They 
were uttered in an hour, when bereavement, dimmed 
with tears and fainting with sorrow, was sighing for 
help more than human. 

It was at Bethany. You remember the affecting 
story of Mary, and Martha her sister, and of Lazarus 
their brother. So simply and truly is it told, that it 
seems as if it were the relation of what had taken 
place in any village around us. " Now a certain man, 



life's consolation. 



131 



named Lazarus of Bethany, was sick." How does 
sucli an event when it becomes sufficiently marked 
with peril to attract attention, spread anxiety and ap- 
prehension through a whole neighborhood. Life 
pauses, and is suspended on the result. " Lazarus was 
sick." What fears, watchings, and agonies of solici- 
tude, hover around the sick man's couch, none but the 
inmates of his dwelling can know. It was in such an 
emergency that Mary and Martha fearful and troubled, 
sent a message to their chief comforter and friend, 
saying, "behold, he whom thou lovest, is sick." Je- 
sus, for reasons perhaps beyond our knowledge, does 
not immediately answer the call of distress. He re- 
mains two days in the same place. Then the dreaded 
event had taken place ; all was over ; and he calmly 
says to his disciples, " our friend, Lazarus sleepeth." 
So does he contemplate death, not as a dread catas- 
trophe, but as a quiet sleep, a sacred repose, succeed- 
ing the weary and troubled day of life. Beautifully 
says our great dramatist, 

" After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." 

But so does it not appear to the bereaved and sor- 
rowing sisters. They are plunged into the deepest 
distress. It is a time of mourning in that still and 
desolate house at Bethany. The dead is buried ; but 
grief lives, and the hours pass in silent agony. The 
sympathizing neighbors from the village are still there, 
and many friends from Jerusalem are with the af- 
flicted sisters to comfort them concerning their bro- 
ther. 

A.t length, the Master approaches. Martha, ever 



132 



life's consolation 



more alert and attentive to what is passing, first hear- 
ing of it, goes forth to meet him. Soon however she 
returns, and says to Mary, her sister, secretly — gives 
her a private intimation — how much passes in the 
dumb show, in whispers, where deep grief is ! — she 
says, in a low tone, " the Master is come, and calleth 
for thee. And as soon as she heard that, she arose 
quickly and came unto him." The language of both 
when they meet him is the same — turns upon the same 
point — " Lord, if thou hadst been here, our brother had 
not died." What natural and living truth is there, in 
this simple trait of feeling ! How natural is it for the 
bereaved to think that if this or that had been done — 
if this or that physician had been called — if some other 
course had been adopted, or some other plan or clime 
had favored, the blow might have been averted. The 
thoughts all shrink from the awful certainty — revert 
to the possibility of its having been avoided ; and 
catch at all possible suppositions to find relief. But 
the awful certainty nevertheless overwhelmed the 
mourning sisters ; " the end had come ; their brother 
was dead — was dead ! — no help now — no change to 
come over that still sleep" — so mourned they ; and 
Jesus beholding their distress, groaned in spirit and 
was troubled, " Jesus wept." He was not one, who, 
with cold philosophy or misplaced rapture in his coun- 
tenance, looked on bereavement and agony — looked 
on death. He was not one who forbade tears and sor- 
rows. He was not one who approached the grave 
with an air of triumph, though he had gained a victory- 
over it ; but it is written, that " again groaning within 
himself, he came to the grave." No, humanity shud- 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 



133 



ders, and trembles, and groans when it comes there, 
and may not, by any true religion, be denied these tes- 
timonies to its frailty. 

But still there were words of soothing and comfort 
uttered by our Saviour on this occasion : and let us 
now turn to them and consider their import. " Mar- 
tha said to Jesus, Lord if thou hadst been here, my 
brother had not died. Bnt I know that even now, 
whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee. 
Jesus saith unto her, thy brother shall rise again. 
Martha saith unto him, I know he shall rise again in 
the resurrection at the last day." She had probably 
heard the doctrine of a future life from himself; but 
alas ! that life seems far off ; dim shadows spread 
themselves over the everlasting fields ; they seem un- 
real to a person of Martha's turn of mind; she wants 
her brother again as he was but now by her side ; she 
entertains some hope that Jesus will restore him ; she 
says, " even now, I know that whatsoever thou wilt 
ask of God, God will give it thee." Jesus does not 
reply to this suggestion ; he does not tell her whether 
her brother shall immediately come back to her; but 
utters himself in a more general and a grander truth. 
" I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth 
in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and 
whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never 
die; believest thou this?" As if he had said, be not 
too curious nor anxious in your thoughts, but confide, 
Martha, in me. You believe in a future resurrection, 
or renewal of life ; you hope for the immediate resur- 
rection of your brother ; but be satisfied with this, — 
" I am the Resurrection ;" all that resurrection, re- 



134 



life's consolation 



newal of life, heavenly happiness means, is embodied, 
consummated, fulfilled in me. Nay, it is not some 
future return to being of which I speak ; he that liveth 
and believeth in me shall never die. Already, he hath 
begun to live immortally. Death is for the body ; but 
for that soul, no death. Its affections are in their very 
nature immortal ; and have in them the very elements 
of undecaying happiness. 

Let us attend a moment to the two parts of this in- 
struction ; what our Saviour uttered as already the 
belief of Martha ; and what he added in the emphatic 
declaration, " I am the Resurrection and the Life." 

" Thy brother shall live again ;" thy brother. Not 
some undefined spirituality, not some new and strange 
being shall go forth beyond the mortal bourne ; but 
life — life, in its character, its affections, its spiritual 
identity, such as it is here ; thy brother shall rise 
again. He is not lost to thee ; he shall not be so spir- 
itually changed as to be forever lost to thee. On some 
other shore — as if he had only gone to another hemi- 
sphere, instead of another world — or some other shore, 
thou shalt find him again — find thy brother. Thus 
much must have been taught, or there had been no 
pertinency, no comfort in the teaching. To have only 
said that in the eternal revolutions and metamorphoses 
of being, life, existence should in some sense be conti- 
nued, or that all souls should be re-absorbed into the 
Parent Soul, would have been nothing to this mourn- 
ing sister. Without conscious identity, indeed, with- 
out continued existence, a future life has no intelligible 
meaning; and certainly without it, there could be no 
such thing as reward or retribution. And since the 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 



135 



social element is an essential part of our nature, that 
element must be found in a nature which is the same : 
and that being so, to suppose that friends should meet 
and commune together, without recognition, is as ab- 
surd, as it would be unsatisfactory. Must clearly — to 
confine ourselves to the case before us — such a pro- 
mise of future existence — that is, of a vague, indefinite, 
unremembering existence — would be no comfort to 
sorrowing friendship. To individual expectation it 
would be something, but to bereaved affection, nothing. 
It is to such sorrow — one of the bitterest in this world 
— that of a sister left alone in the world — that Jesus 
speaks ; and he says, " thy brother shall live again." 

" Thy brother shall live again." What words are these 
to be uttered — amidst the wreck's of time, the memorials 
of buried nations, the earth-mounds swelling far and wide 
above the silent dust of all that has ever lived and breathed 
in the visible creation ! Whence come such stupendous, 
such amazing words as these ? From beyond the regions 
of all visible life, they come. From the dark earth be- 
neath us, no voice issues ; from the shining walls of hea- 
ven, no angel forms beckon us. Silence, dust, death are 
here ; no more : the earth entombs us, the heavens crush 
us, till those words come to us, heaven-sent, from the 
great realm of invisible life. O blessed revelation! 
Life there is for us, somewhere — I ask not where. I 
can wait God's time for that. Blessed fields there are 
somewhere in the great embosoming universe of God, 
that stretch onward and onward for ever, and the happy 
walk there. There shall we find our lost ones, and be 
with them evermore. " Father," said our Saviour when 
he was about to depart,—" I will that they whom thou 



136 



life's consolation 



hast given me, be with me, where I am." Shall that 
prayer be answered 1 Then shall there be a glorious fel- 
lowship of good men with Jesus and with one another. 
Are we not sometimes, when we think of this, like Paul, 
" in a strait between two" — between the claims of friend- 
ship on earth and of friendship in heaven, — and ready to 
say, " for us it is better to depart and be with Christ V] 
Are we not ready to say — as the disciples did of Lazarus — 
when our beloved ones are gone from us — " let us go and 
die with them ?" 

And then in addition to this inexpressible comfort and 
hope, what is it that our Saviour so emphatically says to 
Martha? " I am the Resurrection and the Life." Some- 
thing in addition, we may well suppose it must be. And 
I understand it to be this. He that believeth on me — that 
is, receiveth me, hath the spirit, the spiritual life that is 
in me — the same love of God — the same trust in God — is 
already living an immortal life. He shall never die. That 
in him which partakes of my inward life, shall never die. 
It is essentially immortal, and immortally blessed ; and 
no dark eclipse shall come over it, between death and the 
resurrection, to bury it in the gloom of utter unconscious- 
ness, or to cause it to wander like a shadow in the dim 
realms of an intermediate state. " I am the Resurrection. 
Thy brother who hath part in me, lives now, as truly as I 
live." As he says in another place, " I am the bread of 
life ; he that eateth me, even he shall live through me ;" 
so he says," I am the Resurrection and the Life ; and to 
him that is partner and partaker with me, belongeth not 
death, but only resurrection, continued life, life ever- 
lasting." 

Let us now proceed to consider one or two further 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 



137 



grounds for consolation that are suggested by this teach- 
ing of our Saviour. 

That which he especially proposes to his bereaved 
friends at Bethany, is faith in him. It was a faith in him 
as the Saviour of the world, as one who was commissioned 
to bring life and immortality clearly to light, as one who 
through his own death and resurrection should open the 
way to heaven. But we should not do justice to this sen- 
timent of faith, if we did not regard it as something more 
than any mere view of him as Saviour ; if we did not re- 
gard it as the most intimate participation of the spiritual 
life that was in him. That participation embraces, doubt- 
less, general purity of heart and life, a humble resignation 
to God's will, a thoughtful consideration of the wise pur- 
poses and necessary uses of affliction ; but especially it 
embraces as the sum and source of all, the love of God. 
Faith in Christ, is nothing more emphatically than it is 
the love of God, his Father. Upon nothing does he more 
earnestly insist, and upon this he especially insists as the 
pledge and the test of fidelity to him. 

To this, then, let me particularly direct your attention 
as the most essential part of that faith which is to com- 
fort us. 

It is the love of God only that can produce a just sense 
of his love to us. It is only a deep and true sense of his 
love to us, that can assuage the wounds of our affliction. 
This results from the very nature of things. It is not a 
technical dogma, but a living and practical truth. It is 
not a truth merely for certain persons called christians, 
who are supposed to understand this language ; but it is a 
truth for all men. We suffer under the government of 
God. It is his will that has appointed to us change, trial, 
12 



138 



life's consolation 



bereavement, sorrow, death. The dispensation therefore 
will be coloured to us throughout — it will be darkened or 
brightened all over, by our views of its great Ordainer. 
Ah ! it is a doubt here — it is some distrust or difficulty, or 
want of vital faith on this point, that often adds the bitter- 
est sting to human affliction. When all is well with us, 
we can say that God is good, and think that we have some 
love to him ; but when the blow of calamity or of death 
falls upon our dearest possession — strikes down innocent 
childhood, or lovely youth, or the needed maturity of all 
human virtue or source of all earthly help and comfort — 
strikes from our side, that which we could least of all 
spare — Oh ! it seems to us a cruel, cruel blow ! — and we 
say perhaps, in our distracted thoughts, " fa God good, to 
inflict it upon us. He — Oh ! He could have saved, and 
he did not ; he would not. Why would he not ? Does 
he love us — and yet afflict us so ? — yet crush us, break 
us down, and blight all our hopes ? Is this a loving dis- 
pensation ? 

My friends, there is but one remedy for all this — the 
love — the love — the true, pure, childlike love of God : 
such love and trust as Jesus felt — even as he, the smitten, 
afflicted, cast down, betrayed, crucified ; who was urged, 
in the extremity of his sorrow to say, <4 Father, if it be 
possible remove this cup from me; " yet immediately ad- 
ded, "Father, not my will, but thine be done." This is 
our example. This is our only salvation. Nothing but 
this love of God, can yield us comfort. If there is no 
ground for this, then there is no place for consolation in 
the universe. There may be enduring, there may be for- 
getting": but there can be no consolation. If there is ground 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 



139 



for this love and trust, who in the day of trouble will not 
pray God to breathe it into his broken heart ? 

I have said that doubt, distrust, want of faith, is our diffi- 
culty. But 1 do not mean that we seriously and deliber- 
ately doubt the goodness of God. How can we doubt? 
How can the Infinite Being be any thing but good 1 ? 
What motive, what reason, what possibility I had almost 
said, can there be to Infinite power, Infinite sufficiency, to 
be any thing but good ? How can we — except it be in 
some momentary paroxism of grief — how, I say, can we 
doubt ? How doubt — beneath these shining heavens — 
amidst the riches, the plenitude, the brightness and beauty 
of the whole creation — with capacities of thought, of im- 
provement, of happiness in ourselves that almost transcend 
expression — nay, and with sorrows too, that proclaim the 
loss of objects so inexpressibly dear! Whence but from 
love in God, could have come a love in us so intense, so 
transporting, so full of joy and blessedness — nay, and so 
full too of pain and anguish? No! such a love in me 
assures me that it had its origin in love. Could the Being 
who made me intelligent, have been himself without in- 
telligence? Nor could the Being want love, who has 
made me so to love — so to sorrow for what I love. By 
my very sorrows, then, I know that God loves me — I say 
not whether with approbation, but with an infinite kind, 
ness, an infinite pity. What 1 need is, but to feel it, — to 
pray for that feeling — to meditate upon all, that should 
bring that feeling into my heart — to take refuge amidst 
my sorrows, in the assurance that God loves me, that he 
does not willingly grieve or afflict me, that he chastens 
me for my profiting, that he could not show so much love 
for me, by leaving me unchastened, untried, undisciplined. 



140 



life's consolation 



" We have had fathers of our flesh who chastened us — put 
us to tasks, trials, griefs — and we gave them reverence — 
felt, amidst all, that they were good. Shall we not much 
rather be in subjection to the Father of our spirits and 
live." Great is the faith that must save us. It is a faith 
in the Infinite : a faith in the Infinite love of God ! 

From this faith arises another ground of consolation. It 
is, not only that all is well ; but that in the great order of 
things, that which particularly concerns us — enters into 
our peculiar suffering — is well. Our case perhaps, is 
bereavement — heavy and sorrowful bereavement. Is it a 
messenger of wrath ? Is any one of its circumstances, of 
its peculiarities — so poignant and piercing to us — an indi- 
cation of divine anger? Awful thought! Immitigable 
calamity, if it were so ! But no ; it is appointed in love. 
Can God do any thing for anger's sake? To me, it 
were not God, of whom this could be said. Let it be, that 
a bad man has died. Has God made him die, because he 
hated him? I believe it not. If he has lost his being, 
I believe that it is well that he has lost it. If he has gone 
to retribution, I believe it is well that he has gone to that 
retribution ; that nothing could be better for him, being 
what it is. If J were that unhappy being, I would say, 
" let me be in the hands of the infinitely good God, rather 
than any where else." But if it is a good being that has 
gone from me, an innocent child, or one clothed with every 
lovely virtue — one whom Jesus loved as he loved the dear 
brother in Bethany — to what joys unspeakable has that 
being gone ! In the bosom of God — in the bosom of infi- 
nite love, all with him is well. Could that departed one 
speak to us — that lovely and loving one, invested with the 
radiance and surrounded with the bliss of some heavenly 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 



141 



land — would not the language be — " mourn not for me, or 
mourn not as having no hope. Dishonor not the good 
and blessed One, my Father and your Father, by any dis- 
trust or doubt. Mourn for me — remember me, as I too 
remember you — long for you — but mourn with humble 
patience and calm sustaining faith." 

How is with us, my brethren, in this world, and what, 
in contemplation of death, would we say to those that we 
shall leave behind us ? " Grieve not for me," would not 
one say? — or "grieve not too much, when I am gone. I 
cannot bear that you should suffer that awful agony, that 
desolating sorrow, that is often seen in the house of mourn- 
ing. Remembered I would be — oh ! let me have a me- 
morial in some living, affectionate hearts ! — I would never 
be forgotten — I would never have it felt that the tie with 
me is broken : — but let the memory of me be calm, patient, 
sacred, gently sorrowing if need be, but yet ever partaking 
of the blessedness of that love which death cannot quench. 
Let not my name gather about it an awfulness or a sacred- 
ness, such that it may not be uttered in the places where I 
have lived; or if in the sanctuary where it is kept, there 
is a delicacy that forbids the easy utterance of it, still let it 
not be invested with gloom and sadness. Think of me 
when I am gone, as one who thought much on death; who 
had thoughts of it, more and greater than he could in the 
ordinary goings on of life, find fit occasion to utter. If you 
could wish that I had said more to you, on this and many 
other themes, yet give the confidence, that you must ask, 
for that secret world within us all, — that world of a 
thousand tender thoughts and feelings, for which language 
has no expression. Think of me as still possessing those 
thoughts and feelings — as still the same to you — as one 

12* 



142 



life's consolation. 



that loves you still ; for death shall not destroy in us, that 
image of Christ, a pure and holy love. If I retain my 
consciousness, I must still think of you ; with more than 
all the love I ever felt"; it cannot be otherwise. And if I 
am to sleep till the resurrection, though my hope is far 
different — believing in Jesus, my hope is that I am already 
of the Resurrection ; yet if it be so, that God has ordained 
that pause in my existence, it is surely for a wise purpose 
— it is doubtless best for me — and to the ever good and 
blessed will of God, I calmly and humbly submit myself: 
to that ever gracious will, I pray you to be patiently and 
cheerfully resigned. How much better is it than your 
will or mine ! What boundless good may we not expect, 
from an Infinite Will, prompted by an Infinite Love ! Lift 
up your lowly thoughts to this: lift them up to the heav- 
enly regions, to the boundless universe, to the all-em- 
bracing eternity ; and in these contemplations lose the too 
keen sense of this breathing hour of time, of this world of 
dust and shadows; and, of brightness and beauty, too : for 
all is good ; all in earth and in heaven, in time and 
eternity, is good.' , 

Thus, I conceive, might a wise and good man, about to 
depart from this life, speak to those whom he was to leave 
behind him. And thus might those who have died in in- 
fant innocence — thus might angel-children speak from 
some brighter sphere. And if it were wisdom thus to 
speak, then let that wisdom sink into our hearts, and bring 
there its consolation. Perfect relief from suffering it can- 
not bring ; sorrow we may, we must ; many and bitter 
pains must we bear in this mortal lot ; Jesus wept over 
such pains, and we may weep over them ; but let us be 
wise — let us be trustful — let the love of God fill our hearts 



IN VIEW OF DEATH. 



143 



— let the heavenly consolation help us, all that it can. It 
can help us much. It is not mere breath of words to say- 
that God is good, that all is right, all is well ; all that 
concerns us is the care of Infinite Love. It is not a mere 
religious common. place, to say that submission, trust, love 
can help us. More than eye ever saw or the ear ever 
heard, or the worldly heart ever conceived, can a deep, 
humble, child-like, loving piety bring help and comfort in 
the hours of mortal sorrow and bitterness. Believest thou 
this ? This was our Saviour's question to Martha, in her 
distress. " He that believeth on me, though he were 
dead, yet shall he live. And he that liveth and believeth 
on me, shall never die. Believest thou this?" This 
humble, this heart-believing, my friends, is what we need 
— must have — must seek. The breathing of the life of 
Jesus in us — the bright cloud around us, in which he 
walked — this can comfort us beyond all that we know — 
all that we imagine. May we find that comfort ! Forlorn, 
forsaken — or deprived, destitute — or bereaved, broken- 
hearted — whatever be our strait or sorrow — may we find 
that comfort ! 

My Brethren, I have been communing now, with afflic- 
tion. It is a holy and delicate office ; and I have been 
afraid, when speaking with all the earnestness I felt, lest 
I should not speak with all the delicacy I ought ; lest I 
should only add to grief, by touching its wound. But I 
felt that I was coming to meet sorrow — I know that I often 
come to meet it here — it has of late, occupied much of my 
mind — and I could not refrain from offering my humble 
aid for its relief. 

I reflected too that I was coming this morning, to this 



144 



life's consolation. 



sacred table * — this altar reared for the comfort of all 
believing souls — reared by dying hands, to the resurrec- 
tion — to the hope of everlasting life. It was the same 
night in which he was betrayed — it was when he was 
about to die, that Jesus set forth in the form of a feast, 
this solemn and cheering memorial of himself ; and uttered 
many soothing and consoling words to his disciples. He 
did not build a tomb, by which to be remembered, but he 
appointed a feast of remembrance. He did not tell his 
disciples to put on sackcloth, but to clothe themselves with 
the recollections of him, as with the robe of immortality. 
Death indeed, was a dread to him — and he shrunk from it. 
It was a grief to his disciples and he recognized it as such, 
and so dealt with it. But he showed to them a trust in 
God, a loving submission to the Father, that could stay 
the soul. He spoke of a victory over death. He assured 
them that man's last enemy was conquered. Here then 
amidst these memorials of death, let us meditate upon the 
life everlasting. Let us carry our thoughts to that world 
where Christ is, and where he prayed that all who love 
him, might be with him — where, we believe, they are with 
him. Let our faith rise so high — God grant it ! — that we 
can say — " Oh ! grave, where is thy victory ? Oh ! death, 
where is thy sting ? Thanks be to God who giveth us the 
victory, through Jesus Christ, our Lord !" 



* Preached before the Communion. 



DISCOURSE X. 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF 
CHRIST. 



JOHN I. 4. In him was life, and the life was the 

LIGHT OF MEN. 

The words, life and light, are constantly used by the 
Apostle John, after a manner long familiar in the Hebrew 
writings, for spiritual happiness, and spiritual truth. The 
inmost and truest life of man — the life of his life, is spirit- 
ual, life — is in other words, purity, love, goodness; and 
this inward purity, love, goodness, is the very light of 
life — that which brightens, blesses, guides it. 

I have little respect for the ingenuity that is always 
striving to work out from the simple language of Scrip- 
ture, fanciful and far-fetched meanings ; but it would 
seem, in the passage before us, as if John intended to 
state one of the deepest truths in the very frame of our 
being ; and that is, that goodness is the fountain of wisdom. 

Give me your patience a moment, and I will attempt 
to explain this proposition. In it, was life — that is, in 
this manifested and all-creating energy, this out-flowing 
of the power of God, was a divine and infinite love and 



146 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



joy ; and this life was the light of men. That is to say — 
love first, then light. Light does not create love ; but 
love creates light. The good heart only can understand 
the good teaching. The doctrine of truth that guides a 
man, comes from the divinity of goodness that inspires 
him. But, it will be said, does not a man become holy or 
good, in view of truth ? I answer, that he cannot view 
the truth, but through the medium of love. It is the lov- 
ing view only, that is effective ; that is any view at all. I 
must desire you to observe that I am speaking now of the 
primary convictions of a man, and not of the secondary 
influences that operate upon him. Light may strengthen 
love ; a knowledge of the works and ways of God may 
have this effect, and it is properly presented for this pur- 
pose. But light cannot originate love. If love were not 
implanted in man's original and inmost being ; if there 
were not placed there, the moral or spiritual feeling, that 
loves while it perceives goodness, all the speculative light 
in the universe, would leave man's nature, still and for- 
ever cold and dead as a stone. In short, loveliness is a 
quality which nothing but love can perceive. God can- 
not be known in his highest — that is, in his spiritual and 
holy nature, except by those who love him. 

Now of this life and light, as we are immediately af- 
terwards taught — Jesus Christ — not as a teacher merely, 
but as a being — is to us the great and appointed source. 
And therefore when Thomas says, " how can we know 
the way of which thou speakest," Jesus answers, " I mn 
the way, and the truth and the life ; no man cometh to 
the Father but by me." That is, no man can truly come 
to God, but in that spirit of filial love, of which I am the 
example. 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 147 

In our humanity there is a problem. In Christ only 
is it perfectly solved. The speculative solution of that 
problem, is philosophy. The practical solution is a good 
life ; and the only perfect solution is, the life of Christ. 
In him was life, and the life was the light of men. 

In him, I say, was solved the problem of life. What 
is that problem ? What are the questions which it pre- 
sents ? They are these. Is there anything that can be 
achieved in life, in which our nature can find full satis- 
faction and sufficiency ? And if there be any such thing 
— any such end of life ; then is there any adaptation of 
things to that end ? Are there any means or helps pro- 
vided in life, for its attainment 1 Now the end must be 
the highest condition of our highest nature ; and that end 
we say, is virtue, sanctity, blessedness. And the helps 
or means are found in the whole discipline of life. But 
the end was perfectly accomplished in Christ, and it was 
accomplished through the very means which are appoint- 
ed to us. He was tempted in all points as we are, yet 
without sin ; and " he was made thus perfect through 
sufferings." 

Our Saviour evidently regarded himself as sustaining 
this relation to human life ; the enlightener of its dark- 
ness, the interpreter of its mystery, the solver of its pro- 
blem. " I am the light of the world," he says ; " he that 
followeth me, shall not walk in darkness, but shall have 
the light of life." And again ; "lam come a light into 
the world, that whosoever believeth on me, should not 
abide in darkness." It was not for abstract teaching to 
men that he came, but for actual guidance in their daily 
abodes. .- It was not to deliver doctrines alone, nor to ut- 
ter or echo back the intuitive convictions of our own 



148 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



minds, but to live a life and to die a death ; and so to live 
and to die, as to cast light upon the dark paths in which 
we walk. 

I need not say that there is darkness in the paths of 
men ; that they stumble at difficulties, are ensnared by 
temptations, are perplexed by doubts ; that they are anx- 
ious and troubled and fearful ; that pain and affliction 
and sorrow often gather around the steps of their earthly 
pilgrimage. All this is written upon the very tablet of 
the human heart. And I do not say that all this is to be 
erased ; but only that it is to be seen and read in a new 
light. I do not say that ills and trials and sufferings are 
to be removed from life, but only that over this scene of 
mortal trouble a new heaven is to be spread, and that the 
light of that heaven is Christ, the sun of righteousness. 

To human pride, this may be a hard saying ; to human 
philosophy, learning, and grandeur, it may be a hard say- 
ing ; but still it is true, that the simple life of Christ, 
studied, understood and imitated, would shed a brighter 
light than all earthly wisdom can find, upon the dark trials 
and mysteries of our lot. It is true that whatever you 
most need or sigh for — whatever you most want, to still 
the troubles of your heart or compose the agitations of 
your mind, the simple life of Jesus can teach you. 

To show this, I need only take the most ordinary ad- 
missions from the lips of any christian, or I may say, of 
almost any unbeliever. 

Suppose that the world were filled with beings like 
Jesus. Would not all the great ills of society be 
instantly relieved ? Would you not immediately dis- 
miss all your anxieties concerning it — perfectly sure 
that all was going on well ? Would not all coercion, 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 149 

infliction, injury, injustice, and all the greatest suffer- 
ing of life, disappear at once ? If, at the stretching 
out of some wonder-working wand, that change could 
take place, would not the change be greater far, than 
if every house, hovel and prison on earth, were in- 
stantly turned into a palace of ease and abundance and 
splendor? Happy then would be these "human 
years ;" and the eternal ages would roll on in bright- 
ness and beauty ! The "still, sad music of humanity," 
that sounds through the world, now in the swellings of 
grief, and now in pensive melancholy, — would be ex- 
changed for anthems, lifted up to the march of time, 
and bursting out from the heart of the world ! 

But let us make another supposition, and bring it 
still nearer to ourselves. Were any one of us a per- 
fect imitator of Christ — were any one of us clothed 
with the divinity of his virtue and faith; do you not 
perceive what the effect would be? Look around upon 
the circle of life's ills and trials, and observe the effect. 
Did sensual passions assail you ? How weak would 
be their solicitation to the divine beatitude of your 
own heart! You would say, "I have meat to eat that 
ye know not of." Did want tempt you to do wrongly, 
or curiosity to do rashly ? You would say to the one, 
" man shall not live by bread alone ; there is a higher 
life which I must live," and to the other, " thou shalt 
not tempt the Lord thy God." Did ambition spread 
its kingdoms and thrones before you, and ask you to 
swerve from your great allegiance ? Your reply would 
be ready ; " get thee hence, Satan, for it is written, 
thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only 
shalt thou serve." Did the storm of injury beat upon 
13 



150 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



your head, or its silent, shaft pierce your heart ? In 
meekness you would bow that head — in prayer, that 
heart, saying, " Father forgive them, for they know 
not what they do." What sorrow could reach you — 
what pain, what anguish, that would not be soothed 
by a faith and a love like that of Jesus? And what 
blessing could light on you, that would not be bright- 
ened by a filial piety and gratitude like his ? The 
world around you, would be new, and the heavens 
over you would be new — for they would be all, and all 
around their ample range, and all through their glo- 
rious splendors, the presence and the visitation of a 
Father. And you yourself, would be a new creature ; 
and you would enjoy a happiness, new, and now 
scarcely known on earth. 

And I cannot help observing here, that if such be 
the spontaneous conviction of every mind at all ac- 
quainted with Christianity, what a powerful independ- 
ent argument there is for receiving Christ as a guide 
and example. It were an anomaly, indeed, to the 
eye of reason, to reject the solemn and self-claimed 
mission of one, whom it vyould be happiness to follow 
— whom it would be perfection to imitate. Yet if 
the former — the special mission — were rejected; if it 
were, as it may be, by possibility, honestly rejected ; 
what is a man to think of himself, who passes by, and 
discards the latter — the teaching of the life of Christ ? 
Let it be the man, Rousseau, or the man, Hume, or any 
man in these days, who says that he believes nothing 
in churches, or miracles, or missions from heaven. 
But he admits, as they did and as every one must, that 
in Jesus Christ was the most perfect unfolding of 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 151 

all divine beauty and happiness that the world ever 
saw. What, I say, is lie to do with this undeni- 
able and undented Gospel of the life of Jesus ? 
Blessed is he, if he receives it; that is unquestionable. 
All who read of him — all the world, admits that. But 
what shall we say if he rejects it? If any one eould be 
clothed with the eloquence of Cicero or the wisdom of 
Socrates, and would not, all the world would pro- 
nounce him a fool — would say that he had denied his 
humanity. And surely if any one could be invested 
with all the beauty and grandeur of the life of Jesus, 
and would not ; he must be stricken with utter moral 
fatuity ; he must be accounted to have denied his high- 
est humanity. The interpretation of his case is as 
plain as words can make it ; and it is this ; "light has 
come into the world and men have loved darkness 
rather than light, because their deeds are evil." 

" In him was life," says our text, "and the life was 
the light of men." 

I have attempted to bring home the conviction of 
this, simply by bringing before your minds the suppo- 
sition that the world, and we ourselves, were like him. 
But as no conviction, I think, at the present stage of 
our christian progress, is so important as this, let me 
attempt to impress it, by another course of reflections. 
I say of our christian progress. We have cleared away 
many obstacles, as we think, and have come near to 
the simplicity of the Gospel. No complicated ecclesi- 
astical organization nor scholastic creed, stands be- 
tween us, and the solemn verities of Christianit)-. I am 
not now pronouncing upon those accumulations of hu- 
man devices; but I mean especially to say, that no 



152 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



mystical'notions of their necessity or importance, min- 
gle themselves with our ideas of acceptance. We 
have come to stand before the simple, naked shrine of 
the original Gospel. We have come, through many 
human teachings and human admonitions, to Christ 
himself. But little will it avail us to have come so 
far, if we take not one step farther. Now, what I 
think we need is, to enter more deeply into the study 
and understanding of what Christ was. 

This, let us attempt. And I pray you and myself, 
Brethren, not to be content with the little that can now be 
said ; but let us carefully read the Gospels for ourselves, 
and lay the law of the life of Christ, with rigorous preci- 
sion to our own lives, and see where they fail and come 
short. It is true indeed, and I would urge nothing beyond 
the truth, that the life of Jesus is not, in every respect, an 
example for us. That is to say, the manner of his life 
was in some respects, different from what ours can, or 
should be. He was a teacher ; and the most of us are ne- 
cessarily and lawfully engaged in the business of life. He 
was sent on a peculiar mission ; and none of us have such 
a mission. But the spirit that was in him, may be in us. 
To some of the traits of this spirit, as the only sources of 
light and help to us, let me now briefly direct your 
attention. 

And first, consider his self-renunciation. How entire 
that self-renunciation was ; how completely his aims went 
beyond personal ease and selfish gratification ; how all 
his thoughts and words and actions were employed upon 
the work for which he was sent into the world ; how, his 
whole life, as well as his death, was an offering to that 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 



153 



cause — I need net tell you. Indeed, so entirely is this his 
accredited character ; so completely is he set apart in our 
thoughts not only to a peculiar office, but set apart too and 
separated from all human interests and affections, that we 
are liable to do his character in this respect, no proper 
justice. We isolate him, till he almost ceases to be an 
example to us ; till he almost ceases to be a virtuous 
being. He stands alone in Judea; and the words, society, 
country, kindred, friendship, home, seem to have, to him, 
only a fictitious application. But these ties bound him as 
they do others; the gentleness and tenderness of his nature 
made him peculiarly susceptible to them ; no more touch- 
ing allusions to kindred and country can be found in 
human lan^ua^e, than his; as when he said " Oh ! Jeru- 
salem ! Jerusalem ! " in foresight of her coming woes — 
as when he said on the cross, behold thy mother ! — be- 
hold thy son ! " Doubtless he desired to be a benefactor 
to his country, an honor to his family; and when Peter, 
deprecating his dishonor and degradation, said «' be it far 
from thee, Lord! this shall not be unto thee," and he 
turned and said unto Peter — "get thee behind me Satan, 
thou savourest not the things that be of God but those that 
be of men," it has been beautifully suggested that the very 
energy of that repulse to his enthusiastic and admiring 
disciple, shows perhaps that he felt that there was some- 
thing in his mind that was leaning that way; that the 
things of men were contending with the things of God in 
him ; that he too much dreaded the coming humiliation 
and agony to wish to have that feeling fostered in his 
heart. 

But he rejected all this ; he renounced himself — renoun- 
*13 



154 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



ced all the dear affections and softer pleadings of his affec- 
tionate nature, that he might be true to higher interests 
than his own, or his country's, or his kindred's. 

Now I say that the same self-renunciation would relieve 
us of more than half of the difficulties and of the diseased 
and painful affections of our lives. Simple obedience to 
rectitude, instead of self-interest — simple self-culture, in- 
stead of ever cultivating the good opinion of others, — how 
many disturbing and irritating questions would these single- 
heurted aims, take away from our bosom meditations ! 
Let us not mistake the character of this self-renunciation. 
We are required not to renounce the nobler and better af- 
fections of our natures — not to renounce happiness — not to 
renounce our just dues of honor and love from men. It is 
remarkable that our Saviour, amidst all his meekness and 
all his sacrifices, always claimed that he deserved well of 
men — deserved to be honored and beloved. It is not to 
vilify ourselves that is required of us — not to renounce our 
self-respect, the just and reasonable sense of our merits and 
deserts — not to renounce our own righteousness, our own 
virtue, if we have any ; such falsehood towards ourselves 
gains no countenance from the example of Jesus : but it is 
to renounce our sins, our passions, onr self- flattering delu- 
sions ; and it is to forego all outward ad vantages which can 
be gained only through a sacrifice of our inward integrity, 
or through anxious and petty contrivances aud compliances. 
What we have to do, is to choose and keep the better part 
— to secure that, and let the worse take care of itself; to 
keep a good conscience and let opinion come and go as it 
will; to keep high, self-respect, and to let low self-indulg- 
ence go ; to keep inward happiness, and let outward ad- 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 



155 



vantages hold a subordinate place. Self-renunciation, in 
fine, is, not to renounce ourselves in the highest character 
— not to renounce our moral selves, ourselves as the 
creatures and children of God : herein rather it is to cherish 
ourselves, to make the most of ourselves, to hold our- 
selves inexpressibly dear. What then is it precisely to re- 
nounce ourselves ? It is to renounce our selfishness ; to 
have done with this eternal self-considering which now 
disturbs and vexes our lives; to cease that ever asking 
" and what shall we have ? " — to be content with the pleni- 
tude of God's abounding mercies ; to feast upon that infi- 
nite love, that is shed all around us and within us ; and so 
to be happy. I see many a person, in society, honored, 
rich, beautiful, but wearing still an anxious and disturbed 
countenance — many a one upon whom this simple prin- 
ciple — this simple self-forgetting, would bring a change in 
their appearance, demeanor, and the whole manner of their 
living and being— a change that would make them ten-fold 
more beautiful, rich and honored. Yes ; strange as it may 
seem to them — what they want, is, to commune deeply, in 
prayer and meditation, with the spirit of Jesus — to be 
clothed, not with outward adorning, but with the simple 
self-forgetting, single-hearted truth and beauty of his spirit. 
This is the change — this is the conversion that they want, 
to make them lovely and happy beyond all the aspirations 
of their ambition, and all their dreams of happiness. 

Have you never observed how happy is the mere 
visionary schemer, quite absorbed in his plans. — quite 
thoughtless of every thing else? Have you never re- 
marked how easy and felicitous, is the manner in society, 
the eloquence in the public assembly, the whole life's ac- 
tion, of one who has forgotten himself ? For this reason 



156 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



in part it is, that the eager pursuit of fortune is often happier 
than the after enjoymont of it ; for now the man begins to 
look about for happiness, and to ask for a respect and atten- 
tion which he seldom satisfactorily receives ; and many 
such are found, to the wonder and mortification of their 
families, looking back from their splendid dwellings, and 
often referring, to the humble shop in which they worked; 
and wishing in their hearts, that they were there again. 

It is our inordinate self-seeking, self-considering, that is 
ever a stumbling-block in our way. It is this which 
spreads questions, snares, difficulties around us. It is 
this that darkens the very ways of providence to us, and 
makes the world a less happy world to us, than it might 
be. There is one thought that could take us out from all 
these difficulties ; but we cannot think it. There is one 
clue from the labyrinth ; there is one solution of this strug- 
gling philosophy of life within us ; it is found in that Gos- 
pel, that life of Jesus, with which we have, alas ! but lit- 
tle deep, heart-acquaintance. Every one must know that 
if he could be elevated to that self-forgetting simplicity 
and disinterestedness, he would be relieved from more 
than half of the inmost trials of his bosom. What then 
can be done for us, but that we be directed, and that too 
in a concern as solemn as our deepest wisdom and wel- 
fare, to the Gospel of Christ ? " In him was life ; and the 
life was the light of men." 

In him was the life of perfect love. This is the second 
all-enlightening, all-healing principle that the Gospel of 
Christ commends to us. It is indeed the main and positive 
virtue, of which self-renunciation is but the negative side. 

Again, I need not insist upon the pre-eminence of this 
principle in the life of our Saviour. But I must again 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 157 



remind you that this principle is not to be looked upon as 
some sublime abstraction — as merely a love that drew 
him from the bliss of heaven, to achieve some stupendous 
and solitary work on earth. It was a vita] and heart-felt 
love to all around him ; it was affection to his kindred, 
tenderness to his friends, gentleness and forbearance to- 
wards his disciples, pity to the suffering, forgiveness to 
his enemies, prayer for his murderers ; love flowing all 
round him as the garment of life, and investing pain and 
toil and torture and death, with a serene and holy beauty. 

It is not enough to renounce ourselves, and there to 
stop. It is not enough to wrap ourselves in our close 
garment of reserve and pride, and to say, " the world 
cares nothing for us and we will care nothing for the 
world; society does us no justice, and we will withdraw 
from it our thoughts, and see how patiently we can live 
within the confines of our own bosom, or in quiet commu- 
nion, through books, with the mighty dead." No man 
ever found peace or light in this way. The misanthropic 
recluse is ever the most miserable of men, whether he 
lives in cave or castle. Every relation to mankind, of 
hate or scorn or neglect, is full of vexation and torment. 
There is nothing to do with men, but to love them ; to 
contemplate their virtues with admiration, their faults with 
pity and forbearance, and their injuries with forgiveness. 
Task all the ingenuity of your mind to devise some other 
thing, but you never can find it. To all the haughtiness 
and wrath of men, I say — however they may disdain the 
suggestion — the spirit of Jesus is the only help for you. 
To hate your adversary will not help you ; to kill him 
will not help you ; nothing within the compass of the uni- 
verse can help you, but to love him. Oh ! how wonder- 



/ 



158 



THE PROBLEM OF LIFE, 



fully is man shut up to wisdom — barred, as I may say, 
and imprisoned and shut up to wisdom ; and yet he will 
not learn it. 

But let that love flow out upon all around you, and what 
could harm you ? It would clothe you with an impene. 
trable, heaven-tempered armour. Or suppose — to do it 
justice — that it leaves you, all defencelessness, as it did 
Jesus — all vulnerableness, through delicacy, through ten- 
derness, through sympathy, through pity; suppose that 
you suffer, as all must suffer ; suppose that you be 
wounded, as gentleness only can be wounded ; yet how 
would that love flow, with precious healing, through every 
wound ! How many difficulties too, both within and 
without a man, would it relieve ! How many dull minds 
would it rouse ; how many depressed minds would it lift 
up ! How many troubles, in society, would it compose — 
how many enmities would it soften — how many questions, 
answer ? How many a knot of mystery and misunder- 
standing would be untied by one word spoken in simple 
and confiding truth of heart ! How many a rough path 
would be made smooth, and crooked way, be made strait ! 
How many a solitary place would be made glad, if love 
were there ; and how many a dark dwelling would be 
filled with light ! " In him was life, and the life was the 
light of men." 

Once more, there was a sublime spirituality in the 
mind of Jesus, which must come into our life to fill up the 
measure of its light. It is not enough in my view, to yield 
ourselves, to the blessed bonds of love and self-renuncia- 
tion in the immediate circles of our lives. Our minds 
must go out into the infinite and immortal regions, to find 
sufficiency and satisfaction for the present hour. There 



RESOLVED IN THE LIFE OF CHRIST. 



159 



must be a breadth of contemplation in which this world 
shrinks — I will not say to a point — but to the narrow span 
that it is. There must be aims, which reign over the 
events of life, and make us feel that we can resign all the 
advantages of life, yea, and life itself; and yet be con- 
querors and more than conquerors through him who has 
loved us. 

There is many a crisis in life when we need a faith 
like the martyr's to support us. There are hours in life 
like martyrdom — as full of bitter anguish, as full of utter 
earthly desolation — in which more than our sinews — in 
which we feel as if our very heart-strings were stretched 
and lacerated on the rack of affliction — in which life it- 
self loses its value, and we ask to die — in whose dread 
struggle and agony, life might drop from us, and not be 
minded. Oh ! then must our cry, like that of Jesus, go 
up to the pitying heavens for help, and nothing but the 
infinite and the immortal can help us. Calculate, then, 
all the gains of earth, and they are trash — all its pleasures, 
and they are vanity — all its hopes, and they are illusions ; 
and then, when the world is sinking beneath us, must we 
seek the everlasting arms to bear us up — to bear us up to 
heaven. Thus was it with our great Example, and so 
must it be with us. In him was life — the life of self- 
renunciation, the life of love, the life of spiritual and all- 
conquering faith — and that life is the light of men. Oh ! 
blessed light ! come to our darkness ; for our soul is 
dark, our way is dark, for want of thee — come to our 
darkness, and turn it into day ; and let it shine brighter 
and brighter, till it mingles with the light of the all-perfect 
and everlasting day ! 



DISCOURSE XI. 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 
(Preached at the close of the year.) 



I CORINTHIANS VII. 29. But this, I say, brethren, 

THE TIME IS SHORT. 

The epochs of time, are among the most powerful 
teachers of religion. One of those epochs we are now 
again approaching. We are assembled in the Sanc- 
tuary, my friends, on the last Sabbath evening of the 
year. How short is the period, since we were last 
assembled, at a similar epoch? Truly, the time is 
short: the time of life is short. Well, that it has its 
periods, its pauses for reflection ! Let the dying year 
then teach us. It would argue a kind of brutish in- 
sensibility to take our leave of another such period — 
so large a period of our lives — and to ask ourselves no 
questions about life, its course, its great design, its 
solemn close. The departing year is the emblem of 
departing life ; and these last hours have solemn 
thoughts to offer us, like to those which will visit us 



ON THE SHORTxVKSS OF LIFE. 



161 



in the last hours of our stay on earth. Let us medi- 
tate upon time, then, while to meditate may profit us 
— before it be said, not of the departing year only, but 
of departing life, "it shall be no longer." 

In particular, I shall, for the present, invite you to 
meditate on the shortness of time — that is, of the time 
of life ; its shortness in relation to time absolutely con- 
sidered ; the shortness, still more, of that portion of 
life which can be rescued from the unavoidable de- 
mands of the body, and devoted singly, in contempla- 
tion and prayer, to the soul; and its shortness, in fine, 
and yet more emphatically, in comparison with the 
work we have to do, and the consequences that are 
depending on it. 

First; the brevity of life, compared with time abso- 
lutely considered. 

It is common I know to make the reflection that life 
is short, but I do not think it is common to feel it. 
Least of all is it common in the earlier periods of life. 
Its termination is, then, contemplated as afar off, 
amidst the shadows of age, amidst the dimness of an 
uncertain future ; and life seems to be almost boundless. 
The indefinite is all that we mean by the boundless ; 
and life possesses that indefiniteness, that it imposes 
upon the young mind almost the feeling that it has no 
end. There is another influence, tending to produce 
the same result; and that is worldliness. To the 
worldly mind, life is every thing. And if life is every 
thing, it must be something vast and immense. For 
we were made to grasp interests of infinite magnitude ; 
the intellectual comprehension of a immortal mind 
must be of this nature. It must feel that the objects 
14 



162 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



which engross it, are vast and momentous. And there- 
fore, although we fix our minds upon the little interests 
of a day, these interests instead of appearing to be the 
little things that they are, do rather swell out and ex- 
pand, in our view, to an importance and durableness 
corresponding to the vastness of our capacities, to the 
reach of our desires, to the extent of our hopes. So 
that the greatness of our nature, instead of going out, 
as it ought to do, to the divine objects and enduring 
ages of a future life, often makes to itself a greatness 
of this world, and an immortality of this frail and fleet- 
ing life. So it must be. The feelings, the desires, 
the fears and hopes, the interests and the objects, that 
are wrapt up in the soul of man, must expand to an 
indefinable magnitude, and run onward to an indefina- 
ble duration. 

If we would correct this erroneous estimate of things, 
let us, for a moment, compare our life with the gene- 
rations that have gone before us. How many thou- 
sands and millions of human beings have lived and 
died, within the compass of known and recorded 
history ! How many millions, just like ourselves — 
with just as many and capacious feelings and desires, 
with just as strong fears and hopes, with just as weighty 
interests and dear objects, have had their hour upon 
earth, and have passed away from the sum of human 
existence ! How many generations have passed, like 
the passing clouds upon the face of the earth — how 
many generations, I say, have thus passed, of which, 
and compared with which, our life is but a vapor ! 
What then is the stability or the permanency of our 
earthly being ? What is it, when the lives 01 unnum- 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



163 



bered and innumerable millions, have all been included 
in the brief space of this world's duration ? Look 
around upon your objects, and magnify them to the 
utmost, and, then, tell us what they are. You are a 
merchant. Your ships are traversing distant oceans. 
Your property is spread abroad, perhaps, on the waves 
of two hemispheres. Your plans, your expectations 
a re great, and life, in your account, is, also, something 
great. It seems to you, to have many treasures, and 
m any long years in store for you. Life seems to you, 
it may be, to have a range sufficiently extensive to sat. 
isfy your desires. The world, you say, is enough for 
you. But where are the princely traders of Tyre and 
Tarshish? Where are the merchants of Babylon, that 
were the great men of the earth ? And where are all 
their treasures ? Is the breath of existence that was 
breathed in Babylon, three thousand years ago, and 
that you are breathing again, as soon to pass away — is 
this enough for you ? Was the taper of shining pros- 
perity, that was kindled in many a house in Rome, and 
went out ages since — that was kindled in the morning 
and died away at evening — was it a thing blight and 
enduring enough to satisfy all your desires? Nay, 
where are the men whose footsteps resounded on yon- 
der pavements fifty years since? — busy, active, pros- 
perous, and perhaps, rich — where are they ? A few 
years hence, another preacher will ask the same ques- 
tion concerning us, and the answer will come from our 
graves ! 

Or, you are a man, with the objects of ambition be- 
fore you. You would be distinguished in your occu- 
pation, or pursuit, or profession, or in the style of 



164 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



living, or in the dignity of office. You would be 
known — to the literary, or the great, or to the multi- 
tude. You would be the first — in some chosen sphere, 
— in genius, in conversation, in industry, in wealth, or 
in wit. Your heart beats high with this hope, and you 
have plans and projects ; and the life which is to ac- 
complish them, rises into a momentous concern. But 
oh ! vain toil of ambition ! — poor strife for the pre- 
eminence — brief hour of success ! what is it? What is 
it to gain a certain position, which the moment it is 
reached, is lost forever? How many have struggled 
just as you do — have struggled and striven, and wearied 
themselves out with exertions and anxieties, and worn 
down their faculties with study, or care, and have vexed 
their spirits with fears and envyings, and they are gone ! 
the brief struggle is over ; the coveted wealth or honor 
is lost at the very moment of attainment. Like the 
waves of the everflowing sea, their earthly fortunes 
have risen and fallen, — have risen but to fall — and to 
be lost in the tide of passing generations. So shall 
thine fall and mine ; and he who moralizes on this very 
spot, a century hence, may think as little of us, as we 
do of those, who two hundred years ago, wandered, 
with their bow and spear, along this wooded shore, — 
and have vanished, a dark cloud, from the face of the 
earth. 

Or, to specify once more, you are a parent ; — a father 
or a mother : and your children are growing up around 
you, and their prospects are opening before you the 
scenes of future years. You are living anew in them, 
and you hope to live long with them ; and so, it may 
be, you shall. But in how many thousands and mil- 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



165 



lions of dwellings has all this passed, — all that is pre- 
cious and sacred in the joy and hope of domestic love, 
— and it is gone, like an evening's pleasure, or the 
dream of morning? There have been fathers and 
mothers, and husbands and wives, and affectionate 
children and kindred, — the long ages have been crowd- 
ed with those who were clothed as we are, with all the 
sympathies of this mortal life ; but the bright cloud of 
happiness that shone upon them, and kindling with all 
the hues of hope, lead them onward, was even a vapor 
that appeared for a little time, and then vanished away. 
I was reading some while since, the life of a celebrated 
person, no other than Sir Walter Scott — -a man whose 
writings have filled the world with his fame — who was 
surrounded by troops of Iriends and admirers; — and 
his biographer, speaking of a large company of his 
most intimate friends, including the most of his own 
family, who M ere gathered at his residence in the sum- 
mer of 1821, makes this striking reflection — "Death 
has laid a heavy hand upon that circle — as happy a 
circle I believe as ever met. Bright eyes now closed 
in dust, gay voices forever silenced, seem to haunt me 
as I write. With three exceptions, they are all gone !" 
But sixteen years had passed, and with three excep- 
tions, all were gone. So shall thy family ties be bro- 
ken, and thy troops of friends and thy gay circles 
shall sink to rest, and other beings shall come forward 
to share the same fate, till all be gathered into the 
habitations of eternity. 

Such is the brevity of our life compared with the periods 
of this world's duration. How brief is it, then in com- 
parison with the periods of eternity ! When we look back 
14* 



166 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



upon the history of the world, upon its eras and revolu- 
tions, the successions of empire, and the progress of gene- 
rations and races of men, we are apt to feel as if these 
periods of time were vast, and almost immeasurable. But 
to that Being, v/ho is from everlasting to everlasting, " a 
thousand years are but as yesterday when it is past, and 
as a watch in the night." To that Being, who has placed 
orbs of light at such distances in the heavens, that a ray, 
travelling with its inconceivable speed, has required years 
to come to us, — to that eternal Being the history of this 
world must be as the history of an hour. What then is 
our life ? We talk of the insects, that are born and perish 
in the sun-beam, — that live and die in the passing breeze 
of summer ; such are we. In the range of duration from 
the past to the coming eternity, our life is but a moment^ 
a passing breath of air, a vanishing beam of light. Like 
the arrow that flieth, like the weaver's shuttle, like the 
vapour which a ray of the sun dissolveth, like the flying 
shadow upon the summer's field, so our life passeth away. 
" O remember," says Job, " that my life is a breath : the 
eye of him that hath seen me, shall see me no more ; 
thine eyes are upon me, and I am not. As the cloud is 
consumed and vanisheth away, so man goeth down to the 
grave." 

II. But if life is thus short, in relation to time absolutely 
considered, it is yet shorter in its specific opportunities 
for gaining any certain, any abiding, any spiritual good. 

There is the toil of the hands, and the toil of the head — 
which often, as little tends to -make the heart better and 
happier : there are many and long hours of weariness, 
when the burden of the body weighs heavily upon us ; there 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



167 



are food and raiment to be prepared, after toil has pro- 
vided them ; and then comes 

" Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, 
The death of each day's life." 

And when all the demands of the mortal nature are thus 
satisfied, how small a portion is left for direct and specific 
attention to that which is immortal. I say for direct and 
specific attention. I do not forget that I have often in- 
sisted, that the whole of life, all its care, business and plea- 
sure, may be and must be consecrated to the service of 
the spirit. I certainly do and must remonstrate against 
the common idea that life is divided into distinct depart- 
ments, one of which belongs to business, another to plea- 
sure, and another to religion- I say that they all belong 
to religion. But still it is to be no less carefully stated 
and earnestly maintained, that in order to this consecration 
of the entire life to religion, there must be certain sea- 
sons for meditation, self-examination and prayer. Reli- 
gion must be the spirit of every hour ; but it cannot be 
the meditation of every hour. That must be the business 
of certain times and seasons. And what I say is that 
these seasons are made by the pressure of other engage- 
ments, to be but too few and short. We can often send 
up from the midst of our labors and engagements, an 
ejaculatory prayer to God ; we can deeply and devotedly 
commune with him, each morning before we enter 
upon the secular pursuits of the day ; we can give our 
thoughts wholly to such contemplations, in the seasons of 
public worship. And we can, I think, in many a silent 
hour when the day is going down, when the evening 



168 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



shadows fall, sit down, in solitariness and meditation, and 
think of the uses and ends of life. And what I urge is 
that we make a diligent use of these brief opportunities 
and seasons. If you were sent to a distant country, with 
a momentous commission to execute, if your time was 
limited and brief, and if from the necessary cares and fa- 
tigues of a hasty journey, you had only a few momentary 
intervals of thought, a little season in the morning and in 
the evening, and an occasional day of rest, to study the 
business you had to transact ; would you be found idling 
away those intervals, and seasons, and opportunities ? 
Or, would you be found putting off the study of the very 
business on which you were sent, to the moment of your 
leaving the country ? Would you put off to the crowded 
and agitating hour of your departure, all careful and de- 
liberate consideration of the very object of your journey ? 
O, christian ! O man whosoever thou art ! pilgrim of these 
hasting years ! traveller to eternity ! Art thou putting off 
thy great concern ? Art thou forgetting thine errand ? 
Art thou idling away the precious seasons of prayer and 
meditation? Art thou never seeking nor finding the brief 
intervals for reflection and resolution and solemn vows to 
heaven ? Let the past year testify. How has it been 
with us in the sanctuary ? When the voice of prayer 
has ascended, here, have we seized the moments as pre- 
cious, and given our whole hearts to God? Or has the 
dreadful and deadly sin of formality cleaved to us, and is 
the hand-writing of memory upon these walls, a hand- 
writing of condemnation ? And how, moreover, has it 
been with us in our retirements and in the midst of our 
business — of our merchandize and labor, of our counting 
rooms and offices ? Have frequent and earnest thoughts 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



169 



of christian fidelity and truth, of spiritual mindedness, and 
silent offerings of prayer, gone up from them, as a memo- 
rial and a witness for us ? Good friends ! I must ask 
these questions with myself, and I hope there is no im- 
propriety in giving them expression to you. For I have 
preached in vain, if there are no such witnesses for me 
in your places of business, in your houses, in your hearts. 

These are enquiries, indeed, that become us at all times; 
but most of all in these last hours of the departing year, 
when the admonition is growing louder and louder, of the 
brevity of our life, and the transient nature of all its op- 
portunities. And these circumstances in which we at 
this moment stand, if any can, must give force to the ex- 
hortation, that we be found more faithful, and earnest, and 
diligent, and ready to every good word and work. For 
we are taught by the swift hours that are hasting to fill 
up the measure of another period of our lives, that the 
time is short — short even at the largest — and shorter still 
in the portion of it, that may be rescued for thoughts of 
the soul. 

III. And let us now add to these reflections, that our 
life is yet more and more, emphatically brief, when con- 
sidered in relation to the work we have to do. It is in 
this respect chiefly, that we are wont to account any pe- 
riod of time, either long or short. The season that would 
be long for an amusement, would be short for obtaining 
an education. The time that would hang heavily on our 
hands in a party of pleasure, would fly all too swiftly for 
the transaction of a complicated business. The moral 
business of this life, the spiritual education for future 
worlds — how vast a work is it ! 

I will not wrap the future in mysteries ; nor strive to 



170 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



throw upon it, gigantic shadows of danger, that may serve 
only to alarm the imagination. I would that the simple, 
the undisguised, the unutterably solemn verities of a mo- 
ral retribution, could be set before us ; and that we might 
see there — no image, no dazzling brightness, no impene- 
trable gloom, but — every virtue enjoying its blessed re- 
compense, and every sin, reaping, in loneliness and sor- 
row, its fruits of bitterness. Nor, will I speak to you, in 
set and technical phrases, of the preparation for futurity. 
But I say, that every step you take in the moral course, 
every moral temper you cherish, shall penetrate far and 
with unknown power, into the periods of your future being. 
I speak, with words of truth and soberness, and I might 
say, with the solemn and reiterated asseveration of the 
great teacher, "verily, verily" it shall be thus. 

Let us then antedate the periods, let us forestall the allot- 
ments, the very procedures of the coming retribution ; let 
us commune with the powers of the world to come, and 
ask them what we shall do to be saved: — to be saved, 
from the dominion and woe of our unholy passions. They 
will tell us, and our reason will tell us, and our observa- 
tion will tell us, every thing will proclaim, that it is no 
slight or brief work. To pluck the root of bitterness from 
our hearts; to quench the fires of anger, and envy and 
pride; to controul and calm the wild and wayward 
passions; to become self-denying and humble, and 
gentle, and pure and heavenly in our disposition ; to rise 
to the love of God and to the practice of habitual devotion ; 
to be, in fine, the happy and glorious creatures that God 
made us to be — Oh ! this is a mighty work. No such toil 
is there upon the billows of ocean nor on the furrowed 
earth, as this toil of the spirit ! It is no slight work, I had 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



171 



almost said, to form evil habits, to contract the stains of 
guilt. But when day after day had added its shade to that 
dark spot on the soul, when indulgence after indulgence 
has lent power to some evil passion, when ceasless repe- 
tition has imparted strength to some evil habit, and cir- 
cumstances have long ministered food to it, and falsehood 
in its thousand forms, has bound it to the soul with its 
thousand chains, — who shall think the work of recovery 
an easy task? Shall it take a long time for vice to grow, 
and gain the mastery ? and shall less be required for res- 
cue from it, and for virtue to gain the ascendency ? Shall 
the sin that has obtained a place and an abode within us 
only by .long solicitation — shall it be expelled in a 
moment ? Is the work of care, briefer than the work of 
neglect ? Is self-denial more easily or more quickly to be 
accomplished, than self-indulgence ? Do we account it, a 
slighter task to extirpate an evil passion, than it was to 
form it? No, it may take but a moment to receive the 
touch of contagious moral disease, but if that disease shall 
be suffered to fix itself, if it be not instantly counteracted, 
it shall require long and wearisome hours and days to heal 
it ! One assault, one blow of temptation may cause the 
feeble virtue of man to waver, and eventually to fall ; but 
hard shall be the effort to collect his prostrate powers, and 
slowly shall he rise from that deep degradation ! 

Take an instance, any instance. You are an irritable 
person. And the sin of anger, you must put away from 
you, before you can be permanently happy, in this world 
or in any other. Can you conquer it in a day ? Can you 
do it in a month ? Can you do it in a year ? How short 
and hasty is the period of life in which you have to do this 
work ! If you had but this single sin to struggle with, 



172 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



every moment of your coming life, in which you could 
pray and strive against it, might not be too much to ac- 
complish the task of self-government ; alas ! it might be 
all too short. But it is not one sin only; it is a host, that 
you have to encounter. You are worldly, or vain, or en- 
vious, or sensual ; and you may be all these. And in ad- 
dition to all this, you may be undevout ; and never have 
learned to take hold of the strength of prayer and to put 
on the armour of God. Your foe is legion, and dwelleth 
among the rocks and fastnesses of habit ; and this host of 
evil tempers and passions, warring against your happiness 
and forever to war against it, till conquered — this host there 
is no miracle to dispossess or overcome. Or shall I say, 
that reflection, and effort, and self-denial, and watchfulness, 
and prayer are the miracles, that are to do it. Yes, they 
are miracles, too seldom seen ; and when they are seen, 
and when they put forth all their strength, they are of no 
sudden operation ; they must do their work slowly. 

And yet, I say again, how short is the time in which 
they have to do their work ! How short, at the longest, is 
the life, in which these spiritual prodigies and signs and 
wonders are to be wrought out ! Let the departing year, 
ere yet it is gone forever, again admonish us of the brevity 
of life — again tell us, that the time is short. How many 
things that we have done during this one brief year, shall 
remain upon the earth when we are gone ! We have 
worked with the frail materials of earth, but they are 
stronger than we. The very leaf, on which we have 
written our bonds and deeds, or our testaments, or our 
thoughts of religion, truth and wisdom — that very leaf, 
which the flame of a taper could consume in a moment, 
shall last longer than we. The very raiment which clothes 
us, though it be of the frailest texture, may be more endur- 



ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 



173 



ing than we, and the feeble moth that consumes it, may be 
our survivor. How truly is it said, that our foundation is 
in the dust, and that we are crushed before the moth ! We 
have got gain, and we have builded houses, and we have 
proudly launched forth our ships to have dominion over 
the seas ; but our gains shall be for others ; and these 
habitations which we have reared, shall remain long after 
they have known us no more; and the ships we have 
builded, shall breast the shock of the ocean billows, when 
the last wave of earthly trouble shall have passed over 
us forever ! 

Once more let the departing year admonish us. We 
have come together to receive its admonition. Let it not 
be in vain. It may be the last admonition of this kind, 
that we shall ever receive. When the next message of 
the closing year, comes to warn us, it may find us gone, 
where admonitions never come. Now therefore, let us be 
faithful. Now, let us resolve, while it is called to-day, and 
in every coming day, let us strive — to do every spiritual 
work, that our hand findeth to do, with, our might — with- 
out delay, without neglect, without any possible failure. 

The time is short. How brief, how transitory, how 
evanescent is a year ! So will life appear, when we stand 
on the borders, to us, of all earthly time. Look back upon 
the past year It is gone like a dream ! A few such 
dreams — and life itself is gone forever ! But there is one 
thing that can turn this unsubstantial and otherwise fear- 
ful dream of life, into a blessed reality ; and that is steadfast 
virtue, humble piety, devoted prayer, the true service of 
God. So live then, that life be not a frightful dream to 
visit your soul hereafter, with threatening and horror, but 
a blessed reality to bear you up to the regions of an im- 
mortal life. 15 



DISCOURSE XII. 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



GENESIS XXIV. 63. And Isaac went out to meditate 

IN THE FIELD AT EVENTIDE. 

The employment of the evening hour, here de- 
scribed, and attributed to the ancient patriarch, is vari- 
ously represented by different commentators. Some 
say that he went out to meditate, others to pray, and 
others render it. that he went out simply to walk in 
the field, at eventide. I have only to remark that there 
is no impropriety in supposing either of these to be 
the true meaning; and that all of them might be very 
naturally united, in such an hour and place. 

But be this as it may— I am about to propose to you 
some of those reflections which are suitable to the 
close of day. 

I. And the first and most natural reflection to make 
at the return of the evening, is, on the blessings we 
have_enjcyed : the blessings of nature, of existence, 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



175 



and the blessings with which life and the world, are 
filled. To the contemplation of nature simply con- 
sidered — to the contemplation of that grand display 
which every day's revolution opens to us, there is a 
prevailing indifference, arising, I think, from causes 
which are not altogether of a moral character. There 
have been so many fanciful and merely pretty descrip- 
tions of nature, as to have brought a kind of discredit 
on all professed meditations of this kind. It is almost 
felt as if it were the province of poets and sentimental- 
ists only, with which common men on common occa- 
sions, have little or nothing to do. And thus many of 
us, by a sort of formal maxim, have shut ourselves out 
from some of the most delightful and ennobling reflec- 
tions. We have a natural obstacle to contend with of 
sufficient strength, without creating any artificial ones. 
The commonness which attaches to every thing in the 
world around us, has almost unavoidably tended to 
bring down all that is splendid, beautiful and majestic 
in nature, to the character of what is tame, ordinary, 
and uninteresting. With what emotion does a man 
enter into some populous and magnificent city, which 
he has never before seen ! With what enthusiasm do 
our travellers visit Rome, and survey its noble ruins of 
aqueducts, and temples, and triumphal arches ! With 
what a fascination of the senses, should we wander 
through some of those Oriental palaces or halls, of 
which we read; amidst magnificent decorations of every 
material, form, and coloring — golden lamps, and re- 
splendent mirrors, carved work and tapestry, and silken 
couches and carpets rich with all the dyes of the East ; 
where luxury, and art, and imagination have gathered 



176 REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 

all their treasures — where the air that circulates through 
them is loaded with perfume, and breathes with music : 
— we should probably feel almost as if we were in ano- 
ther and etherial world. And yet I do not hesitate to 
say, that all this is perfectly flat and insipid compared 
with what we witness in the revolution of every day! 
Let it only be new, — let it be seen for the first time — let 
the earth be surveyed in such a season as this which is 
now passing over us let a being like ourselves, be 
brought from some region where the sun never shone, 
where the fields were never clothed with verdure nor 
the trees with foliage — let him behold first, the glorious 
coming of the day, the golden East, the Sun as he 
would burst from the clouds that wait upon his rising ; 
let him look up to the heavens that spread in awful 
beauty and sublimity above him ; let him gaze upon 
the earth around him with all its fair and various 
forms, its fresh verdure and flowery fields, its trees 
and forests, all waving in the breeze of morning ; let 
him hear the song from the groves — the song of happi- 
ness that blends with all the sounds of the wakening 
earth ; let him catch in his view the living streams as 
they flow, the extended plains, the majestic mountains, 
and then go forth and survey the boundless tracts of 
ocean; let him wander the live-long day, through all 
this world of beauty and magnificence, — and how poor 
and meagre would be to him, all the works of human 
power and art ! Would he not meditate, as he walked 
forth at the eventide of such a day ? Would he not 
say — " what a day has this been ? a day of wonders !" 
Would he not almost instinctively bow down in adora- 
tion and gratitude, and in language like that which the 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



177 



poet has put into the moutli of the first man who saw- 
all this loveliness and glory, would he not say, 

" These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
Almighty! thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair. Thyself how wondrous then ! 
Unspeakable — who sitest above these heavens, 
To us invisible, or dimly seen 
In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine." 

Another subject of reflection appropriate to the even- 
tide is life ; life I mean, now, as a blessing. 

A day's existence, since there are innumerable days 
like it, is commonly regarded, I believe, as one of the 
most indifferent matters of reflection ; as scarcely 
worthy of notice, unless it be to speak of its vanity 
and unimportance, and the little it has offered of what 
is either interesting or estimable. Such, alas ! is the 
fruit of prevailing irreligion. If it be asked of most 
persons concerning the day that has passed over them, 
what it has offered that is worthy of note, it is common 
to hear it spoken of with the greatest indifference, and 
often with ennui and weariness. It seems to be thought 
of, as a hasty and vanishing moment; and a moment, 
too, which if it had not been hasty, would have been 
far worse than indifferent or wearisome. I do not say, 
that we should be often making grave or sentimental 
comments on the day that is past ; but I fear that the 
opposite habit of speaking — the light or indifferent or 
dull habit, but too well indicates the insensibility there 
is to the value of existence, to the value of a day. 

Others may feel something of its value. In their even- 
15* 



178 REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



ing offerings of thanksgiving, they may acknowledge the 
favor of God to them that they have lived another day. But 
how little — may it not be ? — that the most considerate and 
devout feel the import of this acknowledgement ! How 
great is the privilege of existence ! — to live, to think, to 
be — to have come forth, as we have, from darkness, 
from nothingness, to the joyful precincts of life and light ; 
to be clothed with these senses, mysterious ministers, that 
bring all nature around, subject to us — all its fruits, its 
fair forms, its beautiful colors, its fragrance and its music, 
subject to our dominion. Doth not the ephemeral insect, 
that perishes in the hour or the day of its birth, that is con- 
fined to a little spot of earth, or pool of water — yet doth it 
not sport in the beams of life ? Is not the winged creature, 
the frail passer-by of a season, buoyant and melodious 
with the joy of its transient being ? Hath not the goat 
upon the high hills — hath not the eagle in the mountain- 
top, a gift, for which he might well pay thanks, if he could 
do so ? And what thanks then shall man render for his 
rational, religious, immortal being — man that he is, unlike 
the beasts of the field, capable of being thankful 1 Theirs 
is a life of sensation ; his, a life of the soul. Their guid- 
ance and limit is instinct ; he walks in the paths of know- 
ledge, of improvement — yea, in the everlasting paths of 
improvement and hope. They shall pass away — from every 
valley and mountain, from every living stream, and every 
region of air, they shall quickly pass to the shades of 
eternal oblivion. But man that liveth now, shall live for- 
ever. The day that is passing over him, belongs to a se- 
ries of endless days and ages. What value shall he not 
attach to such an existence? What tribute of gratitude 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 179 

can be too profound, to mark its successive periods—its 
morning hour, and shades of evening ? 

I have spoken of nature and life, my friends ; and be- 
sides their own intrinsic character and excellence, what 
blessings do they spread before us, each clay? How 
many are the testimonies of God's beneficence, in our 
condition and our nature, in our social relations and in. 
dividual experience, in occupation and in leisure, in busi- 
ness and recreation, in peace at home and safety abroad, 
in the pursuits and pleasures of daily activity, and the in- 
vitations of nightly repose ? Perhaps we think not of all 
this, and we go to the kind rest that heaven has provided, 
with complaint upon our lips. We say that we have 
many cares and crosses and vexations. And yet it may 
be, that there is no chamber of sickness in our dwelling, 
no suffering friend to sympathize with ; no want at our 
daily board, no anguish of bereavement in our hearts, 
Oh ! these would make us comprehend how favored is 
the lot of health and cheerfulness and competence. 

And yet after all, how inadequate would be the best 
sense we could entertain of the blessings of a single day. 
Swiftly its hours and minutes pass, thickly its cares and 
occupations crowd upon us but more swiftly do its mer- 
cies come, more closely do they press us on every side. 
The divisions of time, its minutes and instants, supply no 
measure, no means of enumeration, for the benefits we 
receive. As each beating pulse is the signal of unnum- 
bered movements in our animal frame, so the passing 
moments of life, mark, but do not count, innumerable ope- 
rations and benefits in the universal frame of nature, and 
the countless tribes of living creatures. Ages of happi- 
ness are crowded into moments of God's goodness ; and 



ISO BEFLECTJONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



yet the moments of his goodness are lengthened out 
to everlasting ages. " How precious are thy thoughts 
unto us, O God, how great is the sum of them ; if we 
should count them, they are more in number than the 
sand ; when we awake we are still with thee." 

Such are some of the thoughts of God's mercies, with 
which it would become us to close the day. 

It. Of our faults and offences it becomes us in the next 
place, to think. Conscience has now its hour, and may, 
unmolested, do its office. It is a delicate monitor, and 
often in the eagerness and hurry of our daily pursuits, it 
is trodden down, or passed by and neglected. But in the 
silence of evening, it has a distinct and audible voice. 
And for us, erring, sinning men, it is greatly wise to listen, 

" To talk with our past hours, 
And ask them what report they bore to heaven, 
And how they might have borne more welcome news." 

The ancient philosophers earnestly recommended to 
their followers, to appropriate a part of each evening to 
a review of the acquisitions of the day. But the christian 
philosopher, who knows that there is something more im- 
portant even than knowledge, and far more difficult to 
obtain, will more earnestly exhort his disciples to settle 
at the close of every day, the great moral account with it. 
This account is not to be satisfactorily settled in any gene- 
ral way ; not by the vague acknowledgement that we are 
sinners, that we have our share, of course, in human im- 
perfection, that we are frail and erring mortals like the 
rest. Our particular faults must be dealt with, not our 
general delinquencies only — our particular omissions of 
duty must be called to mind ; forgetfulness towards our 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



181 



Creator, or injury to our fellow-beings, either in deed, 
word, or thought. Our errors and offences are daily re- 
peated, and what chance exists of their correction, if they 
are not daily recollected, and resolved against ? It is for 
want of this daily and specific consideration of their faults., 
that so many persons, and so many, even, who profess to 
be leading a religious life, go on, ten, twenty or thirty 
years, without making any evident progress, without any 
material amendment of their bad tempers or spiritual neg- 
ligences — just as passionate, as avaricious, as selfish or 
worldly, as they were years ago. Who has not been 
alarmed, for his very capacity of moral improvement, at 
the frequent remark, so often made and so sadly verified— 
that men continue through life very much what they were 
in their early dispositions ? "I see he is the same !" says 
some shrewd observer, and yet perhaps he speaks of one 
whom he knew forty years ago, and who, perhaps, during 
all these forty years has imagined that he was a good 
christian. But let it be known, that he is not in any valu- 
able sense a good christian, if he really be in all moral 
respects the same. Ke is not the true disciple of a 
thorough, spiritual, heart-searching conscience or Chris- 
tianity. It is the nature of real religion to advance. It 
can no more rest than the rising light. It can no more 
fail to shine brighter and brighter. The doctrine of 
growth in grace is not an obsolete doctrine. It is the ex- 
perience, it is the hope of every good man. It is his re- 
fuge from the gloom of utter wretchedness and despair. 

I am not wandering from the subject. He who will at 
every evening, seriously review the faults of the day, can- 
not fail in process of time to correct them — cannot fail to 



182 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



improve. And I know not how he can make this progress 
in any other way. 

Nay, I fear that we must say more than this, — however 
severely the rule may press upon many of us. We must 
say, that the man of a truly spiritual mind and tender 
conscience, will take this daily, serious and solicitous ac- 
count of his faults and sins. I care not to n intain, that it 
will be in the evening, though that season will most natur- 
ally invite his thoughts to such a contemplation. But he 
cannot let day after day pass, without any special attention 
to what he feels to be the great interest of his life, — his 
growing purity, likeness to God, and preparation for a 
heavenly happiness. 

But I say, that the evening will be the time most suit- 
able for this employment. The man of a faithful conscience 
will then naturally ask, how he commenced the day; with 
what thoughts and purposes ; with what sincerity and 
earnestness of desire unto Almighty God for his aid and 
blessing. He will then pursue his inquiries into the labors 
and pleasures of the day. "Have I been industrious in 
business or study ; temperate in the gratification of my 
senses and appetites ; strong in the controul of my passions ; 
unwavering in my adherence to truth in my words, and 
to principle in my actions? " And to ask a still more seri- 
ous and painful question — painful through the fears it 
awakens — " what have been my motives, in practising the 
duties of diligence, moderation and integrity ? — These are 
duties which I owe to myself. Have I, moreover, in these 
and all other duties been faithful to God ? Have I venerated 
his authority? Have I truly desired and 'aimed this day 
to serve him 1 Have I often thought of him in his works 
and ways ; and am I more and more learning to make the 



REFLECTIONS A.T TUB CLOSE OF DAY. 



183 



whole of my life, an offering to his goodness, a progress 
in the knowledge of his perfection, and a communion with 
his presence? In fine, have I this day been true to my 
social relations — true and faithful as a parent or a child, 
as a husband or wife, as the member of a family, of a 
friendly circle, or of the community ? Have I been faith- 
ful in my transactions ? Can I not only lay open my ac- 
count-book, but the secret thoughts of my heart, to my 
neighbor, and appeal to him* for the honesty in which I 
have dealt with him? Have I also been mild, forbearing, 
and considerate in all cases ? Has no one gone from my 
presence soured, chagrined or irritated by my rude, haugh- 
ty or has f y manners and words? " 

"Doubtless," a humble man will add, "I have done 
many things wrong ; " but the question he has further 
to ask is, " do I regret it, and am I now resolved, that 
I will do so no more ? " 

I have only to add on this head, if you will permit me, 
one piece of advice — which is, that these impressions 
and purposes should be revived in the morning, and 
should be brought into an earnest application to God 
for his grace and guidance. This practice, I am sure, 
could not fail, eventually to change the whole tenor of 
our life if it be wrong— to change it from the image of 
the earthly, to the image of the heavenly. 

III. Finally the close of the day, calls us to consider 
the brevity and the end of life. We shall soon lay aside 
the garments of mortality, never to take them up ; the 
blessings of life will soon be enjoyed; its sins will soon 
exist only in painful remembrance ; its cares and toils 
will be succeeded by the repose of the grave. " The 
night of death cometh in which no man can work." It 



184 REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 

cometh ; — you see not the sun actually move in the 
sky, but how soon it reaches the horizon ! Life passes 
thus imperceptibly ; you see not, that it approaches to 
its limit ; and yet it is approaching. The night cometh. 
You perceive not its advance, and you probably will 
not. You will be occupied with business; you will be 
agitated with plans for the future ; you will be pursuing 
or enjoying ; you will be on a journey, or taken up 
with the comforts or the cares of your home ; and in an 
hour when you think not, the shadows of evening will 
descend, and chase away the vision of life forever ! — 
Such to most men's experience, is this present existence, 
— short, transient, fleeting ; flying with a rapidity like 
that of the luminaries of heaven, and yet passing as 
silently in its course, as imperceptibly as they ; and let 
it be remembered, as surely passing. The sun is not 
more certainly hasting through his daily revolutions, 
than he is, with every revolution, cutting short the term 
of our mortal being. 

I grieve not, that it passes. Let it pass. Let it speed 
its flight. Life is but the traveller's way, or the pil- 
grim's toil. It demands only our passing thoughts and 
affections, not our ultimate, fixed, firm reliance and 
attachment. It becomes us not to regret its passage, 
nor to mourn the loss of it, as if it were the extinction 
of all our hopes. Our only concern with the shortness 
of life, is, so to number our days as to apply our hearts 
unto wisdom. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do 
it quickly for there is no work, nor wisdom nor device 
in the grave whither thou goest". That is to say, be- 
yond this life, the proper work of life cannot be clone ; 
it| wisdom is there to be recompensed, not exercised ; 



REFLECTIONS AT THE CLOSE OF DAY. 



185 



and there is no device that can save us from the inevit- 
able consequences of our negligence, unfaithfulness, 
or folly. 

Let it pass, then ; but let it pass in the ways of duty, 
in the exercise of wisdom, and the foresight of a watch- 
ful conscience. Let us mark its hasty progress. Let 
the descending shadows of every evening, not gloomily, 
but gently remind us, of its speedy and certain decline. 
Let it pass ; but let not the steps of time, be swifter 
than the steps of our obedience ; let not moments suc- 
ceed more quickly, than generous and kind affections 
shall spring up in our hearts ; let us be diligent in pro- 
portion as the time is short ; let our life, brief as it is 
in duration, frail as it is in its tenure, be strong in its 
hold on virtue, — be long in the series of good deeds, — 
and long endure in the remembrance of the good and 
the just! 



K, 



DISCOURSE XIII. 



ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 



I COR. XV. 19. If in this life only we have hope, we 

ARE OP ALL MEN MOST MISERABLE. 

There is a nation in modern times, of which it is con 
stantly said that it has no religion, that in this life only 
has it hope. One is continually assured, not by foreign- 
ers alone, but in that very country — I need not say that 
I speak of France — that the people there have no religion, 
that the religious sentiment has become nearly extinct 
among them. 

Although there is, doubtless, some exaggeration in the 
statement, as would be very natural in a case so very ex- 
traordinary, and the rather as the representation of it, 
comes from a people who are fond of appearing an extra- 
ordinary and wonderful people, and of striking the world 
with astonishment ; yet there is still so much truth in the 
representation, and it is a thing so unheard of in the his- 
tory of all nations, whether Heathen, Mahometan, or 
Christian, that one is naturally led to reflect upon the pro- 
blem which the case presents for our consideration. Can 



ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 187 

a nation go on without religion ? Can a people live de- 
void of every religious hope, without being of all people 
the most miserable ? Can human nature bear such a 
state ? This is the problem. 

It is the more important to discuss this problem, be- 
cause, the very spectacle of such a nation, has some ten- 
dency to unhinge the faith of the world. The thoughtless 
at least, the young perhaps, who are generally supposed 
to feel less than others, the necessity of this great princi- 
ple, may be lead to say with themselves, " is not religion 
after all, an error, a delusion, a superstition, with which 
mankind will yet be able to dispense ?" A part of my re- 
ply to this question I propose to draw especially from the 
experience of the young. For I think indeed, that, instead 
of this being an age, when men, and the young especially, 
can afford to dispense with the aid and guidance of reli- 
gion, it is an age which is witnessing an extraordi- 
nary developement of sensibility, and is urging the need 
of piety beyond, perhaps beyond all former ages. The 
circumstances, as I conceive, which have led to this de- 
velopement, are the diffusion of knowledge, and the new 
social relationships introduced by free principles. But my 
subject at present, does not permit me to enlarge upon 
these points. 

Can the world, then, go on without religion ? I will not 
enquire now whether human governments can go on. 
But can the human heart go on without religion ? Can all 
its restless energies, its swelling passions, its overburthen- 
ing affections, be borne without piety ? Can it suffer 
changes, disappointments, bereavements, desolations — ay, 
or can it satisfactorily bear overwhelming joy, without 
religion ? Can youth and manhood and age, can life and 



188 



ON RELIGION, 



death, be passed through, without that great principle 
which reigns over all the periods of life, which triumphs 
over death, and is enthroned in the immortality of faith, 
of virtue, of truth, and of God ? 

I answer, with a confidence that the lapse of a hundred 
nations into Atheism, could not shake, that it is not pos- 
sible : in the eye of reason and truth, that is to say, it is 
not possible for the world, for the human heart, for life, 
to go on without religion. Religion, naturally, fairly, 
rightly regarded, is the great sentiment of life : and this 
is the point which I shall now endeavor to illustrate. 

What I mean by saying that religion is the great senti- 
ment of life is this — that all the great and leading states 
of mind which this life originates or occasions in every 
reflecting person, demand the sentiment of religion for 
their support and safety. Religion, I am aware, is con. 
sidered by many, as something standing by itself, and 
which a man may take as the companion of his journey, 
or not take, as he pleases ; and many persons, I know, 
calmly, some, it is possible, contemptuously, leave it to 
stand aside and by itself, as not worthy of their invitation, 
or not worthy, at any rate, of being earnestly sought by 
them. But when they thus leave it, I undertake to say, 
that they do not understand the great mental pilgrimage 
on which they are going. If all the teachings of nature 
were withdrawn, if Revelation were blotted out, if events 
did not teach ; yet the very experience of life, the natural 
developement of human feeling, the history of every mind 
which, as a mind, has any history, would urge it to em- 
brace religion as an indispensable resort. There is thus, 
therefore, not only a kind of metaphysical necessity in 
the very nature of the mind, and a moral call in all its 



AS THE GREA.T SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 189 



situations, for religion ; but there is wrapped up within the 
very germs of all human experience, of all human feeling, 
joyous or sorrowful ; there is, attending the very devel- 
opement of all the natural affections, a want, a need inex- 
pressible, of the power of that divine principle. 

Let us trace this want, this need, in some of the differ- 
ent stages, through which the character usually passes. 
Let us see whether this great necessity does not press 
down upon every period of life, and even upon its com- 
mencement — yes, whether upon the very heart of youth, 
there are not already deep records of experience, that 
point it to this great reliance. I have in a former dis- 
course, spoken of the disappointments of youth ; I now 
speak of its wants and dangers. 

In youth then — that is to say, somewhere between the 
period of childhood and manhood — there is commonly, a 
striking deveiopement of sensibility and imagination. 
The passions, then, if not more powerful than at any other 
period, are at any rate more vivid, because their objects 
are new : and they are then most uncontrolable, because 
neither reason nor experience have attained to the matu- 
rity necessary to moderate and restrain them. The young 
ha/*: not lived long enough, to see how direful are the ef- 
fects of unbridled inclination, how baseless are the fabrics 
of ambition, how liable to disappointment are all the hopes 
of this world. And therefore the sensibility of youth, is 
apt to possess a character of strong excitement and almost 
of intoxication. I never look upon one at such a period, 
whose quick and ardent feelings mantle in the cheek at 
every turn, and flash in the eye aud thrill through the 
veins, and falter in the hurried speech, in every conver- 
sation ; yes, and have deeper tokens, in the gathering 

16* 



190 



OS RELIGION, 



paleness of the countenance, in speechless silence, and 
the tightening chords of almost suffocating motion — I 
never look upon such an one, all fresh and alive, and yet 
unused, to the might and mystery of the power that is 
working within — a being full of imagination too, living a 
life but half of realities, and full half of airy dreams ; a 
being, whom a thousand things, afterwards to be regarded 
with a graver eye, now move to laughter or to tears ; I 
never look upon such an one — how is it possible to do 
so ? — without feeling that one thing is needful ; and that 
is, the serenity of religion, the sobriety and steadiness of 
deep founded principle, the strong and lofty aim of sacred 
virtue. 

But the sensibility of youth, is not always joyous 
nor enthusiastic. Long ere it loses its freshness or its 
fascination, it oftentimes meets with checks and diffi- 
culties; it has its early troubles and sorrows. Some 
disappointment in its unsuspecting friendships, some 
school-day jealousy or affliction, some jar upon the 
susceptible nerves or the unruly passions, from the 
treatment of kindred or friends or associates ; — or, at 
a later period, some galling chain of dependence or 
poverty or painful restraint ; or else, the no less pain- 
ful sense of mediocrity, the feeling in the young heart 
that the prizes of ambition are all out of its reach, that 
praise and admiration and love all fall to the lot of 
others — some or other of these causes, I say, brings a 
cold blight over the warm and expanding affections of 
youth, and turns the bright elysium of life, for a sea- 
son, into darkness and desolation. All this is not to 
be described as if it were a mere picture — just enough 
perhaps, but to be considered no otherwise than as a 



AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OP LIFE. 191 

matter of youthful feeling, soon to pass away and to 
leave no results. This state of mind has results. And 
the most common and dangerous is a fatal reckless- 
ness. The undisciplined and too often selfish heart 
says — " I do not care ; I do not care what others say 
or think of me ; I do not care how they treat me. 
Those who are loved and praised and fortunate, are no 
better than I am; the world is unjust; the world 
knows me not: and I care not if it never knows me. 
I will wrap myself in my own garment; let ihem call 
it the garment of pride or reserve — it matters not ; I 
have feelings and my own breast shall be their deposi- 
tory." Perhaps this recklessness goes farther, and the 
misguided youth says, " I will plunge into pleasure ; I 
will find me companions though they be bad ones ; I 
will make my friends care for me in one way, if they 
will not in another ;" or he says perhaps, " nobody 
cares for me, and therefore it is no matter what I do." 

My young friends, have you ever known any of these 
various trials of youth 1 And, if you have, do you 
think that you can safely pass through them, with no 
better guidance than your own hasty and headstrong 
passions? Oh! believe it not. Passion is never a 
safe impulse; but passion soured, irritated and undis- 
ciplined, is least of all to be trusted. If in this life 
only you have hope, if no influence from afar take hold 
of your minds, if no aims stretching out to boundless 
and everlasting improvement strengthen and sustain 
you, if no holy conscience, no heavenly principle sets 
up its authority among your wayward impulses, you 
are indeed of all beings most to be pitied. Unhappy 
for you is all this ardor, this kindling fervor of emo- 



192 



ON RELIGION, 



tion, this throng of conflicting' passions, this bright or 
brooding imagination, giving a false coloring and magni- 
tude to every object ; unhappy for you, and all the more 
unhappy, if you do not welcome the sure guidance, the 
strong control of principle, of piety, of prayer. 

But let us advance to another stage of life and of 
feeling — to the maturity of life. And I shall venture 
to say that where the mind really unfolds with grow- 
ing years; where it is not absorbed in worldly gains or 
pleasures, so as to be kept in a sort of perpetual child- 
hood ; where there is real susceptibility and reflection, 
there is apt to steal over us, without religion, a spirit 
of misanthropy and melancholy. I have often ob- 
served it, and without any wonder ; for it seems to me, 
as if a thoughtful and feeling mind, without any trust 
in the great providence of God, without any commun- 
ion of prayer with a Father in heaven, or any religious, 
any holy sympathy with its earthly brethren, or any 
cheering hope of their progress, must become reserved, 
distrustful, misanthropic, and often melancholy. 

Youth, though often disappointed, is yet always 
looking forward ; and it is looking forward with inde- 
finite and unchecked anticipation. But in the progress 
of life, there comes a time when the mind looks back- 
ward as well as forward ; when it learns to correct 
the anticipations of the future, by the experience of the 
past. It has run through the courses of acquisition, 
pleasure or ambition, and it knows what they are, and 
what they are worth. The attractions of hope have 
not, indeed, lost all their power, but they have lost a 
part of their charm. 

Perhaps, even the disappointment of youth, though 



AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OP LIFE. 193 

it has more of passion and grief in it, is not so bitter 
and sad, as that of maturer life, when it says, " well, 
and this is all. If I should add millions to my store ; 
if I should reap new'honors, or gain new pleasures, it 
will only be what I have experienced before ; I know 
what it is ; 1 know it all. There is no more in-this 
life ; I know it all." Ah ! how cold and cheerless is 
that period of human experience — how does the heart 
of a man die within him, as he stands thus in the very 
midst of his acquisitions — how do his very honors and 
attainments teach him to mourn — and to mourn with- 
out hope, if there is no spiritual hope ! If the great 
moral objects of this life, and the immortal regions of 
another life, are not spread before him, then is he most 
miserable. Yes, I repeat, his very success, his good 
fortune brings him to this. There are untoward cir- 
cumstances, I know ; there are afflictions that may 
lead a man to religion ; but what I now say, is, that 
the natural progress of every reflecting mind however 
prosperous its fortunes, that the inevitable develop- 
ment of the growing experience of life, unfolds, in the 
the very structure of every human soul, that great ne- 
cessity — the necessity of religion. 

This world is dark and must be dark, without the 
light of religion; even as the material orb would be 
dark without the light of Heaven to shine upon it. 
As if 

"The bright Sun were extinguished, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless and pathless ; and the icy earth 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;" 

so would the soul, conscious of its own nature, be, without 



194 



ON RELIGION, 



the light of God's presence shining around it, without 
those truths that beam like the eternal stars from the depths 
of heaven, without those influences, invisible and far off, 
like the powers of gravitation, to hold it steadily in its orbit, 
and to carry it onward with unerring guidance, in its 
bright carreer. And no philosopher, no really intellectual 
being, ever broke from the bonds of all religious faith, 
without finding his course dreary, "blind and blackening" 
in the spiritual firmament. His soul becomes, in the ex- 
pressive language of Scripture, "like a wandering star, or a 
cloud without water." No mean argument is this, indeed, 
for the great truths of religion. But whether it is so or 
not, it is a fact. I know indeed that many persons pos- 
sessed of sense and talent in this world's affairs, do live 
without religion, and ordinarily without any painful con- 
sciousness of wanting it. But what do men of mere sense 
and talent in this world's affairs, know of the insatiable and 
illimitable desires of the mind ? What — what by very 
definition, as the votaries of worldly good, are they pur- 
suing? Why, it is some object about as far distant, in the 
bounded horizon of their vision, as that which the painted 
butterfly is pursuing — some flower, some bright thing a 
little before them ; bright honor, or dazzling gold, or gild- 
ed pleasure. But let any mind awake to its real and 
sublime nature ; let it feel the expanding, the indefinite 
reaching forth of those original and boundless thoughts 
which God has made it to feel ; let it sound those depths, 
soar to those heights, compass those illimitable heavens, of 
thought, through which it was made to range; and then 
let that mind tell me, if it can, that it wants no religion ; 
that it wants no central principle of attraction, no infinite 
object of adoration and love and trust. Nay, if any mind, 



AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 



195 



whatever its pretensions, should tell me this, I should not 
hesitate in my own judgment, to pronounce its acquisitions 
shallow, or at any rate partial, or at the best, technical and 
scholastic. For it is not true, my brethren, that intellec- 
tual weakness most stands in need of religion, or is most 
fitted to feel the need of it; but it is intellectual strength. 
I hold no truth to be more certain than this, — that every 
mind, in proportion to its real developement and expan- 
sion, is dark, is disproportioned, and unhappy, without re- 
ligion. If in this life alone it has hope, it is of all minds 
most miserable. 

I have spoken of youth and manhood as developing the 
need of religion. Does age any less need it % Where 
can that want exist if not in the aged heart ? It is not 
alone, that its pulses are faint and low ; it is not alone, that 
so many of its once cherished objects have departed from 
it ; it is not that the limbs are feeble, the eye dim and the 
ear dull of hearing; it is not that the aged frame is bent 
towards that earth into which it is soon to sink and find its 
last rest ; but what is the position of an old man ? Where 
does he stand ? One life is passed through ; one season 
of being is almost spent ; youth has found, long since, the 
goal of its career; manhood, at length, is gone; and he 
stands — where — and upon what ? What is it that spreads 
before him? Is it a region of clouds and shadows ? Is all 
before him, dread darkness and vacuity — an eternal sleep — 
a boundless void ? Thus would it be without religion, 
without faith I But how must he, who stands upon that 
shore of all visible being, from whence he can never turn 
back — how must he long for some sure word of promise, 
for some voice, that can tell him of eternal life, of eternal 
youth — of regions far away in the boundless universe of 



196 



ON RELIGION, 



God, where he may wander on and onward forever? 
Age, with faith, is but the beginning of life, the youth of 
immortality ; the times and seasons of its being are yet 
before it ; its gathered experience is but an education to 
prepare it for higher scenes and services : but age, with- 
out faith, is a wreck upon the shore of life, a ruin upon 
the beetling cliffs of time — tottering to its fall, and about 
to be engulphed, and lost forever ! 

I have thus attempted to show that religion is the great 
sentiment of each period of life. Let me now extend the 
same observation to those epochs in life, which are oc- 
casioned by changes in that material creation which 
surrounds us. 

There are sentiments appropriate to the dying, and to 
the reviving year. What are they ? How striking is 
the answer which is given in all literature and poetry % 
Men are able, no doubt, to walk through the round of 
the seasons, without much reflection ; but the moment 
any sentiment is awakened, it is the sentiment of religion; 
it is a thoughtfulness about God's wisdom and bene- 
ficence, about life and death and eternity. Thus it is 
that every poet of the seasons— -every poet of nature, is 
devout ; devout in his meditations when he writes, if not 
devout in his habits always. 

And what man, in thoughtful mood, can walk forth 
in the still and quiet season of Autumn, and tread upon the 
seared grass that is almost painfully audible to the serious 
emotions of his heart, and listen to the fall of the leaf that 
seems, idle as it is, as if it were the footstep of some pre- 
destined event, and hear the far echo of the hills and the 
solemn wind-dirge of the dying year ; and not meditate in 
that hour — and not meditate upon things above the world 



AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 



197 



and above all its grosser cares and interests ! " The dead, 
the loved, the lost' : will come to him then— the world will 
sink like a phantom-shadow, — and eternity will be a 
presence; and heaven, through the serene depths of those 
opening skies, will be to him a vision. 

But again, a change cometh. The seals of winter are 
broken ; and lo ! the green herb and the tender grass, 
and bird and blossom come forth : the clouds dissolve 
into softness, and open the azure depths beyond ; and 
man goeth forth from imprisoning walls, and opens his 
bosom to the warmth and the breeze, and feels his frame 
expand with gladness and exultation. Then, what is he, 
if from the kindling joy of his heart arises no incense 
of gratitude. It is the hour of nature's, and ought to be 
of man's thanksgiving. The very stones would cry out 
— the green fields and the rejoicing hills would cry out 
against him, if he were not grateful. The sentiment of 
the spring-time is the sentiment of religious gratituJ ! 

Let us look at other changes. There is a sentiuient 
of the morning. The darkness is rolled away from the 
earth; the iron slumber of the world is broken; it is 
the daily resurrection-hour of rejoicing millions. God 
hath said again, u let there be light ;" and over the moun- 
tain-tops and over the waves of ocean it comes, and 
streams in upon the waking creation. Each morning 
that signal-light, calling to action, is at thy window; duly 
it cometh, as with a message, saying, "awake, arise!" 
Thou wakest; — from dreamy slumbers, from helpless in- 
activity, — and what dost thou find? Hast thou lost any 
thing of thyself in that slumber of forgetful ness ? Hath 
not all been kept for thee ? Hath there not been a watch 
over thy sleep? Thou wakest; and each limb is filled 

17 



198 



ON RELIGION, 



with life ; each sense holds its station in thy wonderful 
frame; each faculty, each thought is in its place ; no dark 
insanity, no dreary eclipse hath spread itself over thy soul. 
What shall the thoughts of that hour, be, but wondering 
and adoring thoughts ? Well are a portion of our prayers 
called matins. Morning prayers — morning prayers — 
orisons in the first light of day, from the bended soul, if 
not from the bended knee — were not the morning des- 
ecrated and denied, if a part and portion of it were not 
prayer? 

And there is a sentiment of the eventide — when the 
sun slowly sinks from our sight — when the shadows steal 
over the earth — when the shining hosts of the stars come 
forth — when other worlds and other regions of the uni- 
verse, are unveiled in the infinitude of heaven. Then, 
to meditate, how reasonable — I had almost said how in- 
evitable is it ! How meet were it then, that in every 
house there should be a vesper-hymn ! I have read of 
such a scene in a village, in some country — I think it was 
in Italy — where the traveller heard, as the day went 
down, and amidst the gathering shadows of the still 
evening, first from one dwelling and then from another, 
the voices ofsong — accompanied with simple instruments, 
flute and flageolet — it was the vesper hymn. How beau- 
tiful were it, in village or city, for dwelling thus to call to 
dwelling, saying, " great and marvellous are thy works, 
Lord God Almighty — just and true are thy ways — God 
of the morning ! God of the evening ! we praise thee ; 
goodness and mercy hast thou caused to follow us all 
our days." 

Thus have I attempted to show that religion is the 
great sentiment of life* It is our life. Our life is bound 



AS THE GREAT SENTIMENT OF LIFE. 199 



up with it, and in it ; and without it, life would be both 
miserable and ignoble. 

I will only add in fine, that religion alone offers to us 
the hope of a future life, and that without this our pre- 
sent being is shorn of all its grandeur and hope. 

Whether we look at our own death or at the death of 
others, this consideration, this necessity of a faith that 
takes hold of eternity, presses upon us. I know very 
well what the common and worldly consolation is. I 
know very well, the hackneyed proverb, that " time is the 
curer of grief ;" but I know very well too, that no time 
can suppress the sigh that is given to the loved and lost. 
Time, indeed, lightens the constant pressure of grief 
rather than blunts its edge ,• and still more than either, 
perhaps, does it smooth over the outward aspect of that 
suffering : but often when ail is outwardly calm and even 
bright, does the conscious heart say — " I hear a voice 
you cannot hear ; I see a sign you cannot see ;" and it 
pays the sad and dear tribute of bereaved love. No, the 
memory of the beloved ones parts not from us, as its 
shadow passes from our countenance. And who is there, 
around whose path such memories linger, that will not 
say, " I thank God, through our Lord Jesus Christ," 
through him who is the revealed " resurrection and life ;" 
through him who said, " he that liveth and believeth in 
me, shall never die V For now, blessed be God, we 
mourn not as those who have no hope. But surely, 
dying creatures as we are, and living in a dying world, if 
in this life only we had hope, we should of all beings, be 
most miserable ! 

In fine, my view of life is such, that if it were not for 
my faith and hope, I should very little care what became 



200 



ON RELIGION, AS THE GREAT, &C. 



of it. Let it be longer or shorter, it would but little 
matter, if all was to end when life ended ; if all my hopes 
and aspirations, and cherished joys, were tobe buried with 
me for ever, in the tomb. Oh ! that life of insect cares 
and pursuits, and of insect brevity — the mind that God 
has given me could only cast a sad and despairing look 
upon it, and then dismiss it, as not worth a farther 
thought. But no such sad and shocking incongruity, is 
there, thanks be to God, in the well ordered course of 
our being. The harmonies that are all around us, in all 
animal, in ail vegetable life — in light and shade, in moun- 
tain and vallev, in ocean and stream, in the linked train 
of the seasons, in the moving and dread array of all the 
heavenly hosts of worlds — the harmonies of universal 
nature, but above all, the teachings of the Gospel, assure 
us that no such shocking incongruity and disorder are 
bound up in the frame of our nature. 

No ; it is true ; that which we so much need to sup- 
port us, is true; God doth look down upon our humble 
path with the eye of paternal wisdom and love ; this uni- 
verse is full of spiritual influences to help us in the great 
conflict of life; there is a world beyond in which we may 
assuredly trust. The heart full of weighty interests and 
cares, of swelling hopes and aspirations, of thoughts too 
big for utterance, is not given us merely that we may bear 
it to the grave, and bury it there. From that sleeping 
dust shall rise the freed spirit, to endless life. Thanks — 
let us again say and for ever say — thanks be to God, 
who giveth us this victory of an assured hope, through 
our Lord Jesus Christ. 



DISCOURSE XIV. 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



ECCLESIASTES III. 11. He hath made evert thing 

BEAUTIFUL IN ITS TIME. 

In my last discourse on human Life, I spoke of reli- 
gion, as the great, appropriate and pervading sentiment 
of life. The religion of life — by which I mean a dif- 
ferent thing — the religion, the sanctity, the real, spirit- 
ual consecration naturally and pr< perly belonging to 
all the appointed occupations, cultivated arts, lawful 
amusements, and social bonds of life ; this is the sub- 
ject of my present discourse. 

By most religious systems, this life — the life, that is, 
which the world is leading and has been leading through 
ages — is laid under a dark and fearful ban. " No reli- 
gion'''' — is the summary phrase which is written upon 
almost its entire history. Though it is held by these 
very systems, that the vv< rid was made for religion — 
made that is to say, for the culture of religion in the 
hearts of its inhabitants — yet it is contended that this 
purpose has been almost entirely frustrated, 
17* 



202 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



First, the heathen nations, by this theory, are cut off 
from all connection with real religion. Next, upon 
the mass of christian nations, as being unregenerate 
and utterly depraved, the same sentence is passed. I 
am not disposed, on this subject, to exact the full 
measure of inference from any mere theory. Men's 
actual views are often in advance of their creeds. But 
is it not very evident — as a third consideration — that 
the prevailing views of the world's life, very well 
agree with the prevailing creeds? Is it not the com- 
mon feeling, that mankind in the mass — in the propor- 
tion of thousands to one — have failed to attain to any 
thing of true religion ; to any, the least of that which 
fulfils the real and great design of the Creator? Is it 
not commonly felt that the mass of men's pursuits, of 
their occupations, of their pleasures, is completely 
severed from this great purpose ? In labor, in mer- 
chandize, in the practice of law and of medicine, in 
literature, in sculpture, painting, poetry, music, is it 
not the constant doctrine or implication of the pulpit, 
that there is no religion, no spiritual virtue, nothing 
accordant with the Gospel of Christ? Men, amidst 
their pursuits, may attain to a divine life: but are not 
the pursuits themselves regarded, as having nothing, 
strictly speaking, to do with such a life — as having in 
them no elements of spiritual good — as having in them 
no tendency to advance religion and goodness in the 
world. 

This certainly, upon the face of it, is a very extra- 
ordinary assumption. The pursuits in question, are — - 
some of them necessary ; others, useful ; and all, na- 
tural ; that is to say they are developments, and inev- 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



203 



itable and predestined developments of the nature 
which God has given us. And yet it is maintained and 
believed, that they have no tendency to promote his 
great design in making the world, that they have no- 
thing in them allied to his purpose, that, at the most, 
they are only compatible with it, and that the actual 
office which they discharge in the world, is to lead 
men away from it. The whole, heaven-ordained ac- 
tivity, occupation, care, ingenuity of human life, is at 
war with its great purpose. And if any one would 
seek the welfare of his soul, he is advised to leave all 
—the farmer, his plow — the merchant, his ships — the 
lawyer, his briefs — and the painter, his easel; and to 
go to a revival-meeting or a confessional, or to retire 
to his closet. I need not say that I am not here ob- 
jecting to meditation — to distinct, thoughtful and so- 
lemn meditation, — as one of the means of piety and 
virtue ; but I do protest against this ban and exclusion, 
which are thus virtually laid npon the beneficent and 
religious instrumentalities of a wise and gracious pro- 
vidence. 

On the contrary, I maintain that every thing is 
beautiful in its time — in its place — in its appointed 
office; that every thing which man is put to do, natu- 
rally helps to work out his salvation; in other words, 
that if he obey the genuine principles of his calling, he 
will be a good man ; and that it is only through disobedi- 
ence to the heaven-appointed tasks, either by wander- 
ing into idle dissipation, or by violating their benefi- 
cent and lofty spirit, that he becomes a bad man. Yes, 
if man would yield himself to the great training of Pro- 
vidence in the appointed action of life, we should not 



204 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



need churches nor ordinances ; though they might still 
be proper for the expression of religious homage and 
gratitude. 

Let us then look at this action of life, and attempt 
to see what is involved in it, and whether it is all alien, 
as is commonly supposed, to the spirit of sacred truth 
and virtue. 

I. And the first sphere of visible activity which pre- 
sents itself, is labor — the business of life, as opposed 
to what is commonly called study. I have before 
spoken of the moral ministration of labor; but let us, 
in connection with this subject, advert to it again. 

My subject in this discourse is the religion of life ; 
and I now say that there is a religion of toil. It is 
not all drudgery — a mere stretching of the limbs and 
straining of the sinews to tasks. It has a meaning. It 
has an intent. A living heart pours life-blood into the 
toiling arm. Warm affections mingle with weary 
tasks. I say not how pure those affections are, or 
how much of imperfection may mix with them, but I 
say that they are of a class, held by all men to be ven- 
erable and dear ; that they partake of a kind of natural 
sanctity. They are, in other words, the home affec- 
tions. The labor that spreads itself over tilled acres, 
all points for its centre, to the country farm-house. 
The labor that plies its task in busy cities, has the same 
central point, and thither it brings daily supplies. 
And when I see the weary hand bearing that nightly 
offering ; when I see the toiling days-man, carrying to 
his home the means of support and comfort ; that offer- 
ing is sacred to my thought, as a sacrifice at a golden 
shrine. Alas ! many faults there are, amidst the toils 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



205 



of life — many hasty and harsh words are spoken ; but 
why do those toils go on at all ? — why are they not 
given up entirely — weary and hard and exasperating 
as they often are ? Because in that home, is sickness, 
or age, or protected though helping woman, to be pro- 
vided for. Because that there, is helpless infancy or 
gentle childhood, that must not want. 

Such are the labors of life ; and though it is true 
that mere selfishness, mere solitary need would prompt 
to irregular and occasional exertion, or would push 
some ambitious persons, of covetous desires, to con- 
tinued and persevering effort ; yet I am persuaded, that 
the selfish impulses would never create that scene of 
labor, which we behold around us. 

Let us next look at the studious professions. 

And I must confess that I have often been struck 
with surprise that a physician could be an undevout 
man. His study — the human frame — is the most won- 
derful display of divine wisdom in the world, the most 
astonishing proof of contrivance, of providence. Fear- 
fully and wonderfully is it made; and if he who con- 
templates it, is not a reverent and heaven-adoring man, 
he is false to the very study that he calls his own. He 
reads a page, folded from the eyes of most men — a 
page of wondrous hieroglyphics — that hand-writing of 
nerves and sinews and arteries ; darkly he reads it, 
with a feeling enforced upon him that there is a wis- 
dom above and beyond him ; and if he is not a reli- 
giously inquiring and humble man, it seems to me that 
he knows not what he reads. Then again, it is his 
office to visit scenes, where he is most especially taught 
the frailty of life, the impotence of man, and the need 



206 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



of a divine helper ; where the strong man is bowed 
down by an invisible blow to debility, to delirium, to 
litter helplessness ; where the dying stretch out their 
hands to heaven for aid, and to immortality for a reli- 
ance ; where affliction smitten to the dust and stript of 
all earthly supports, plainly declares that no sufficient 
resource is left for it, but Almighty Goodness. I do 
not say, that there is any thing in the physician's call- 
ing which necessarily makes him a religious and good 
man ; but I do say that if he obeys the true spirit of 
his calling, he must be lead to the formation of such a 
character, as the inevitable result. 

Turn next, to the vocation of the lawyer — and what is 
it ? It is to contribute his aid to the establishment and 
vindication of justice in the world. But what is justice? 
It is rectitude, righteousness. It is the right, between 
man and man ; and as an absolute quality, it is the high 
attribute of God. The lawyer may fall below this aim 
and view of his vocation, but that is not the fault of his 
vocation. His vocation is most moral, most religious ; it 
connects him, most emphatically, with God ; he is the 
minister of Almighty justice. In the strictest construc- 
tion of things, the clergyman is not more truly God's min- 
ister, than he is. I know that the prevailing view is a 
different one. I know that the world looks upon this pro- 
fession, as altogether irreligious, or altogether un-religious 
at the best. To say that the lawyer however legitimate- 
ly employed, is most religiously employed, sounds in most 
ears like mockery, I suppose. But let us look at hia v 
function, and let us put it in the most doubtful light. He 
goes up to the court of justice to plead the cause of his 
client. All the day long, he is engaged with examining 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



207 



witnesses, sifting evidence, and wrangling, if you please, 
for points of evidence and construction and law. He may 
commit mistakes, no doubt. He may err, in temper or 
in judgment. But suppose that his leading aim, his wish 
is, to obtain justice. And it is a very supposable thing, 
even though he be on the wrong side. He goes into the 
case, and he goes up to the court, not knowing what the 
right is, what the evidence is. He strenuously handles 
and sifts the evidence, to help on towards the right con- 
clusion. Or if you say, it is to help his view of the case ; 
still his function ministers to the same thing. For the 
conclusion is not committed to him ; it lies with the judge 
and the jury ; his office is ministerial ; and he is to put 
forward every fair point on his side, as his opponent will, 
on the other side, because these are the very means — nay, 
the indispensable means, for coming to a righteous de- 
cision. And I say, that if he does this fairly and honest- 
ly, with a feeling of true self-respect, honor and con- 
science ; with a feeling that God's justice reigns in that 
high tribunal ; then he is acting a religious part ; he is 
leading, that day, a religious life. If righteousness, if 
justice is any part of religion, he is doing so. No matter 
whether during all that day, he has once appealed, in 
form or in terms, to his conscience or not ; no matter 
whether he has once spoken of religion and of God, or 
not ; if there has been the inward appeal, the inward pur- 
pose — the conscious intent and desire that justice, sacred 
justice should triumph, he has that day, lead a good and 
religious life : and certainly, he has been making a most 
essential contribution to that religion of life and of society 
* — the cause of equity between man and man — of truth 
and righteousness in the world, 



208 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



There are certain other pursuits of an intellectual char- 
acter, which require to be noticed in this connection — 
those, I mean, of literature and the arts. And the ques- 
tion here, let it be borne in mind, is not whether these 
pursuits are always conducted upon the highest principles ; 
but whether they are in their proper nature and in their 
justest and highest character, religious and good ; whether 
between these functions and religion there is any natural 
affinity ; whether or not, in their legitimate tendency, 
they are helping to work out the world's salvation from 
vice, and sin, and spiritual misery. And certainly, to 
him who is looking with any anxiety to the great moral 
end of providence, this is a very serious question. For 
in these forms — of literature and art — the highest genius 
of the world is usually revealed. The cost of time and 
money to which they put the world, is not a small con- 
sideration. The labored works of art and the means 
lavished to obtain them ; the writing, printing, selling and 
reading of books ; all this presents one of the grandest 
features of our modern civilization. But the cost of men- 
tal labor is more than this ; it is of the very life-blood of 
the world. This great power of communication with ?nen, 
is not only working, and putting in requisition much of 
the labor and time of the world ; but it is often working 
painfully, and is wasting the noblest strengthen its stren- 
uous toils. In siient and solitary places, genius is often 
found, consuming away in the fires which it has kindled. 
And now the question is — on what altars, are these price- 
less offerings laid 1 

Let it be considered then, in answer to this question, 
how few statues, paintings or books, have any bad design. 
Point me to one in an hundred — to one in a thousand or 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



209 



ten thousand — that recommends vice. What then do 
they inculcate ? Surely it is virtue, sanctity, the grandeur 
of the spiritual part of man. What do we see in these 
works ? It is in sculpture, the fearful beauty of the god 
of Light, or the severe majesty of the Hebrew law-giver, 
or the solemn dignity of the Christ. It is in painting, 
some form of moral loveliness, some saint in the rapture 
of devotion, or a christian, constant, serene, forgiving, vic- 
torious in the agonies of martyrdom. It is, in writing — 
in fiction, in poetry, in the drama — some actor or sufferer, 
nobly sustaining himself amidst temptations, difficulties, 
conflicts and sorrows — holding on his bright career 
through clouds and storms, to the goal of virtue and of 
heaven ! Of course, I do not say that there are no moral 
defects in these representations ; but most certain it is, 
nevertheless, that the highest literature and art of every 
age, embody its highest spiritual ideal of excellence. And 
even when we descend from their higher manifestations 
and find them simply amusing, there is nothing in this 
that is hostile to religion. Men must have recreation ; 
and literature and art furnish that which is most pure, 
innocent and refining. They are already drawing away 
multitudes, from coarser indulgences, and from places of 
low and vile resort. And the theatre, were it purged 
from certain offensive appendages, might be one of the 
most admirable ministrations conceivable, to the recrea- 
tion and entertainment of the people. Nay, a great actor 
— as well as a great dramatist — in the legitimate walk of 
his art, may be a most effective and tremendous preacher 
of virtue to the people. 

But, to go again to the main point — I must strenuously 
maintain, that books — to be of religious tendency — to be 

18 



210 ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 

ministers to the general piety and virtue — need not be 
books of sermons, nor books of pious exercises, nor books 
of prayers. These all have their great and good office 
to discharge ; but whatever inculcates pure sentiment — 
whatever touches the heart with the beauty of virtue and 
the blessedness of piety, is in accordance with religion ; 
and this is the Gospel of literature and art. Yes, and it 
is preached from many a wall, it is preached from many 
a book — ay, from many a poem and fiction and Review, 
and Newspaper ; and it would be a painful error, and a 
miserable narrowness, not to recognize these wide-spread 
agencies of heaven's providing — not to see and welcome 
these many-handed coadjutors, to the great, and good 
cause. Christianity has in fact, poured a measure of its 
own spirit into these forms ; and not to recognize it there, 
is to deny its own specific character and claim. There 
are religious books indeed, which may be compared to 
the solid gold of Christianity ; but many of its fairest gems 
have their setting in literature and art ; and if it is a pitia- 
ble blindness, not to see its beautiful spirit even when it 
is surrounded by ignorance and poverty, what must it be 
not to recognize it, when it is set in the richest frame- 
work that human genius, imagination and art can devise 
for it? 

There is one of the arts of expression, which I have not 
mentioned — which sometimes seems to me a finer breath- 
ing-out of the soul than any other, and which certainly 
breathes a more immediate and inspiring tone into the 
heart of the world than any other — I mean music. Elo- 
quent writing is great ; eloquent speaking is greater ; but 
an impromptu burst of song, or strain of music, like one 
of old Bethoven's voluntaries, I am inclined to say, is 



» 

ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



211 



something greater. And now when this wonderful power, 
spreads around its spell, almost like inspiration ; when, 
celebrating heroism, magnanimity, pity or pure love, it 
touches the heart with rapture and fills the eye with tears, 
is it to be accounted among things profane or irreligious? 
Must it be heard in church, to be made a holy thing ? 
Must the words of its soul-thrilling utterance, be the tech- 
nical words of religion — grace, godliness, righteousness — 
in order to mean anything divine 7 No, the vocation of 
the really great singer, breathing inspirations of truth and 
tenderness into the mind, is as holy as the vocation of the 
great preacher. In our dwellings, and in concert-rooms, 
ay, and in opera-houses — so the theme be pure and great 
— there is preaching, as truly as in church walls. 

My Brethren give me your patience — if I must sup- 
pose that what I am saying, needs it. Do but consider 
what the great arts of mental and moral communica- 
tion, express. Are they not oftentimes, the very same 
qualities that you revere in religion ? Are goodness, 
pity, magnanimous self-sacrifice and heroic virtue, less 
divine, because they are expressed in literature, in 
painting or in song ? And when you are moved to ad- 
miration, to tears, at some great example of heroism or 
self-sacrifice — be it by music or dramatic representa- 
tion, — and when the same thing moves you in preach- 
ing ; are you entirely to distinguish between the cases ; 
and to say that the one feeling is profane, and the other 
holy? 

Observe that I do not ask you to revere religion less, 
but to see and to welcome new, and perhaps before un- 
thought of, instruments and agencies in the great field. 
You fear, perhaps, that they are not altogether pure, 



212 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



Then, I say, cut off and cast away the bad part ; 1 plead 
not for that; but none the less accept the good. Nay, 
and 1 might ask — is religious teaching itself, all pure — 
all right? Indeed, I think that religion and religious 
teaching, have been as much perverted and abused as 
labor, literature or art. 

It is every way most injurious and unjust to brand 
every thing as irreligious that is not specifically devot- 
ed to religion ; to deny and as it were to forbid, to 
work any good work, those who " follow not after us." 
Our Saviour rebuked his disciples in such a case ; say- 
ing forbid them not — " he that is not against me, is for 
me." It is a bigotry totally unworthy of the generous 
and glorious Gospel, to hold in utter distrust and dese- 
cration, all the beneficent activities of the world, all its 
kindly affections, all the high purposes and sentiments 
that live both in its physical and mental toils, because 
they do not come within the narrow pale of a technical 
religion ; because they are not embraced in the mystic 
secret of what is called religious experience. All men 
are experiencing more or less, what the christian is ex- 
periencing, [f his experience is higher and more per- 
fect, is that a reason why he shall disdain and reject 
every tiling that is like it in others ? As well might the 
sage, the philosopher repudiate and scorn all the com- 
mon sense and knowledge of the world. If he does so, 
we call him a bigoted and scholastic philosopher. And 
if the christian does so, we must call him a bigoted and 
mystic christian. And, let me add, that if he were a 
generous and lofty-minded christian, I cannot conceive 
what could be more distressing and mournful to him, 
than to hold all human existence, with the exception 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



2X3 



of his little peculiarity, to be a dark and desolate waste 
— to see all beside, as a gloomy mass ot ignorance, er- 
ror, sin and sorrow. It is the reproduction, on christian 
ground, of the old Jewish exclusion and bigotry. 

IJ. Let us now extend our view to another department 
of human life — recreation: and let us see whether we 
cannot embrace this within the great bond of religion ; 
whether we cannot reclaim another lost territory to the 
highest service of man. 

The isles of refreshment ; the gardens and bowers of 
recreation; the play-grounds for sport; somewhere 
must they lie embosomed in this great world of labor ; 
for man cannot always toil. Place for mirth and gaiety, 
and wit and laughter ; somewhere must it be found ; for 
God hath made our nature to develope these very things. 
Is not this sufficient to vindicate the claim of recreation 
to be part of a good and religious life? 

But let us look at the matter in another light. Sup- 
pose the world of men were created — and created in 
full maturity — but yesterday : and suppose it to be a 
world of beings, religious, devout, and devoutly grate- 
ful and good. The first employment that engages it, 
as a matter of necessity and of evident appointment too, 
is labor. But after some days or weeks of toil, it be- 
comes acquainted with a new fact. It finds that in- 
cessant toil is impracticable ; that it is breaking down 
both mind and body ; in fact that neither body nor 
mind was made for it. In short, the necessity of re. 
creation becomes manifest. What then, under this 
view of the case, would men do 1 Social, and socially 
inclined, especially in their lighter engagements, would 
they not very naturally say — " let us devise games and 



214 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



sports , let ns have music and dancing; let us listen to 
amusing recitations or dramatic stories of life's gaiety 
or grandeur ; and let us obey these tendencies and 
wants of our nature, in ever-kept, grateful veneration 
and love of Him who has made us." And if all this 
were followed out, in primeval innocence, with a re- 
ligious devoutness and gratitude, I suppose that every 
objection to it, would be removed from the minds of the 
most scrupulous. 

The objection then, lies against the abuse of these 
things. But what is the proper moral business of such 
an objection ? Is it to extirpate the things in question? 
It cannot. Games, gaieties — sports, spectacles, there will 
be, as long as man have limbs or eyes or ears. It is no 
facticious choice which the world has made of its amuse- 
ments. Ii chose them because it wanted them. The deve- 
lopement here, is as natural as it is in the arts. You might 
as well talk of extirpating music and painting, as of driv- 
ing the common amusements, out of the world. Shall the 
religious objection then, since it cannot destroy, proceed to 
vilify these amusements ? What! vilify an ordinance of 
nature, a necessity of man, a thing that cannot be helped? 
Is this the wisdom of religion — to degrade what it cannot 
destroy ; to make of that which it cannot prevent, the worst 
that can be made ; to banish alike from its protection and 
remedy, that which it cannot banish from the world? 
There lies the garden of recreation, close by the field of 
labor ! and they cannot be severed ; and men must and 
will pass from one to the other ; and is it the office of re- 
ligion to curse that garden, to pronounce it unholy ground, 
and so to give it up to utter levity or license? Nay, can 
any thing be plainer than that it is the business of religion 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



215 



to reform the amusements of the day?- Reform, I believe, 
is the only measure that can be taken with the theatre ; 
for that which has its root in the natural tastes, customs 
and literature of all civilized ages, is not likely to be era- 
dicated. But how is any thing to be reformed? By in- 
vective, by opprobrium, by heaping contempt upon it ! 
By casting it out from the pale of good influences, by 
withdrawing good men from all contact with it, by con- 
signing it over to the irreligion, frivolity and self-indulgence 
of the world % Surely not. And therefore am I anxious 
to show that recreation must come within the plan of good 
life, and hence to show that it is not to be snatched as a 
forbidden pleasure; not to be d storied by the hand of 
reckless license ; but to be welcomed, ay, and consecrated, 
by calm, conscientious, rational enjoyment. 

The objection I am considering, is that the common and 
chosen recreations of the world, are abused. If they were 
pure and innocent, it would have nothing to say. But what 
is not abused? Is not business — is not religion itself 
abused ? Are they therefore to be denounced and driven 
away from the sight of man ? The objection carried out, 
would reduce the whole world to dead silence and inaction. 
But this cannot be tolerated. We must work ; and we 
must do business ; and we must relax into gaiety and 
sporti vencss, when our work is done. Improvements may 
be introduced into each sphere of action, and have been 
all along, through ages ; but the sphere must remain ; and 
it mus remain essentially the same. You can no 'more 
get men to amuse themselves in some entirely new man- 
ner, than you can get them to do business, or to draw deeds 
or to labor upon the arts, in some entirely new manner. 
I tell the ascetic religionist that there will be gaiety and 



216 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



laughter — there will be assemblies and music and dancing 
= — ay, and, as I think, cards and theatres, as long as the 
world stands. Whether he like it or not — whether J like 
it or not, — it cannot be helped. 

Now there are abuses of these things. What are we 
to say of the abuses 1 " Let them crush down and de- 
stroy the things them3elves' , — do we say] But they 
cannot. Then let them be cut off. There is really no- 
thing else to be done. Elevate, refine, purify the public 
amusements. Let religion recognize and restrain them. 
Let it not, as is too common, drive them to license and 
extravagance ; but let it throw around them its gentle and 
holy bonds, to make them pure, cheerful, healthful —help- 
ful to the great ends of life. What a blessed thing for 
the world, were it, if its amusements could thus be res- 
cued, redeemed, and brought into the service of its virtue 
and piety ! What a blessed thing for the weary world, 
for the youthful world, for the joyous world, if the steps 
of its recreation, trodden in cheerful innocence and de- 
vout gratitude, could be ever leading it to heaven ! 

I have now considered two great departments of life ; 
labor, physical and mental — and recreation. My design 
has been, to rescue them from the common imputation 
of being necessarily or altogether worldly or irreligious ; 
to resist the prevailing notion, that all true religion, all 
true spiritual goodness, is gathered up in certain and (so- 
called) sacred professions, peculiarities and places ; to 
show that in all the heaven-ordained pursuits and conditions 
of life, there are elements of good ; that the spirit of God 
is breathing its gracious influence through the world ; 
that there is a religion of life, unrecognized in our ordi- 
nary religious systems, but real and true, and either wor- 
thy of our welcome and admiration ; or when defective 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



217 



or wrong, worthy of our endeavor to correct and im- 
prove it. 

III. But, once more, there is a religion of society. 

This topic, let me observe, is essentially distinct from 
those which I have already discussed- It is true that our 
labor and recreation are mostly social ; but in the social 
bond, there is something more than the business or the 
amusement which takes advantage of it. It has a holi- 
ness, a grandeur, a sweetness of its own. The world, 
indeed, is encircled by that bond ; And what is it 1 la 
business, there is something more than barter, exchange, 
price, payment ; there is a sacred faith of man in man. 
When you know one in whose integrity, you repose per- 
fect confidence ; when you feel that he will not swe ve 
from conscience for any temptation ; that integrity, that 
conscience is the image of God to you ; and when you 
believe in it, it is as generous a.id great an act, as if you 
believed in the rectitude of heaven. In gay assemblies 
for amusement again — not instruments of music, not rich 
apparel, not sumptuous entertainments, are the chief 
things ; but the gushing and mingling affections of life. 
I know what is said, and may be truly said, of selfishness 
and pride and envy in these scenes ; but I know too, that 
good affections go up to these gathering places, or they 
would be as desolate as the spoil-clad caves and dens of 
thieves and robbers. Look at two kind-hearted acquain- 
tances meeting in those places, or meeting in the market 
or on the exchange ; and see the warm pressure of the 
hand, the kindling of the eye, the suffusion of the whole 
countenance with heartfelt gladness ; and tell me if there 
is not a religion between those hearts — a true love and 
worshipping, in each other, of the true and good. It is 



218 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



not policy that spreads such a charm around that meeting, 
but the halo of bright and beautiful affection. It hangs, 
like the soft enfolding sky, over all the world, over all 
places where men meet, and toil or walk together — not 
over lover's bowers and marriage altars alone — not over 
the homes of purity and tenderness alone ; yet these are 
in the world — but over all tilled fields, and busy workshops, 
and dusty highways, and paved streets. There js not a 
trodden stone upon these side-walks, but it has been an 
altar for such offerings of mutual kindness. There is 
not a wooden pillar nor an iron railing, against which 
throbbing hearts have not leaned. True, there are other 
elements in the stream of life, that is flowing through 
these channels. But will any one dare to deny that this 
element is here and every where— honest, heartfelt, dis- 
interested, inexpressible affection. If he dare, let him do 
so, and then confess that he is a brute or a fiend, and not 
a man. But if this element is here — is every where, 
what is it ? 

To answer this question, let us ask, what is God ? 
And the Apostle answers, " God is love " And is not 
this, of which we have been speaking, love — true, pure 
love 1 Deny it, and bear upon your head, the indignation 
of all mankind. But admit it ; and what do you admit? 
That God's love is poured into human hearts. Yes, into 
human hearts ! Oh ! sad, sad — frail, erring, broken, are 
they often ; yet God's spirit is breathing through them— 
else were they despoiled, desolate, crushed, beyond re- 
covery, beyond hope. It is that same spirit of love that 
enshrines the earth and enrobes the heavens with beauty ; 
and if there were not an eye of love to see it, a heart of 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



219 



love to feel it, all nature would be the desolate abode of 
creatures as desolate. 

I know full well, alas ! that there are other things in 
life besides love. I know that in city streets, not far re- 
moved from us, are depths beneath depths of sorrow and 
sin ; that in cellars beneath cellars, and in stories above 
stories, are crowded together poverty and wretchedness 
and filth and vileness. Oh ! desolate and dreary abodes 
— where, through the long bright day, only want and toil 
and sorrow knock at all your gates — only blows of passion 
and shrieks of children, and cursings of drunkenness and 
oaths of the profane, measure out the heavy hours! — are 
there no hearts to bleed for you 1 Are there no energies 
of love to interpose for you ? Shall the stream of glad 
and prosperous life flow so near you, and never come to 
cleanse out your impurities and heal your miseries 1 Nay, 
in that stream of glad and joyous life, I know that there 
are ingredients of evil — the very ingredients indeed that 
prevent a consummatien so blessed. I know that amidst 
gay equipages, selfishness is borne ; and that amidst luxu- 
rious entertainments pride is nursed and sensuality gorged; 
and that through fair and fair-seeming assemblies, envy 
steals, and hatred and revenge spread their wiles ; and that 
many a bad passion casts its shade over the brightest 
atmosphere of social life. All this I know. I do not 
refuse to see the evil that is in life. But tell me not that 
all is evil. I still see God in the world. I see good 
amidst the evil. I see the hand of mercy often guiding 
the chariot of wealth to the abodes of poverty and sorrow. 
I see truth and simplicity amidst many wiles and sophis- 
tries. There is a habit of berating fashionable life, which 
is often founded more in ignorance than ill-will. Those 



220 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



who know better, know that there is good every where. 
I see good hearts beneath gay robes — ay, and beneath 
tattered robes, too. I see love clasping the hand of love, 
amidst all the envyings and distortions of showy compe- 
tition ; and I see fidelity, piety, sympathy, holding the 
long night-watch, by the bed-side of a suffering neighbor, 
amidst all surrounding poverty and misery. God bless 
the kindly office, the pitying thought, the loving heart, 
wherever it is ! — aid it is every where! 

Why, my Brethren, do I insist upon this ? Why do 
I endeavor to spread life before you in a new light — 
in a light not recognized by most of our religious sys- 
tems? I will endeavor in few words, to tell you. 

I am made to be affected, in many respects by the 
consciousness of what is passing around me, but espe- 
cially in my happiness and my improvement. I am 
more than an inhabitant of the world ; I am a sympa- 
thizing member of the great human community. Its 
condition comes as a blessing, or weighs as a burthen, 
upon my single thought. It is a discouragement or an 
excitement, to all that is good and happy within me. 
If I dwell in this world as in a prison, if the higher 
faith, the religion of my being, compels me to regard 
it in this light, if all its employments are prison em- 
ployments, mere penal tasks or drudgeries to keep its 
tenants out of mischief, if all its ingenious handicrafts 
are but prison arts and contrivances to while away the 
time, if all its relations are prison relations, relations 
of dislike or selfishness, or of compact and cunning in 
evil; if the world is such a place, it must be a gloomy 
and unholy place, a dark abode, a wilderness vw.rld : 
yes, though its walls were built of massive gold and 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



221 



its dome were spread with sapphire and studded with 
diamond-stars, I must look upon it with sadness — I 
must look upon its inhabitants with coldness, distrust 
and disdain. It is a picture which I have drawn ; but 
it is mainly a picture of the world as viewed by the 
prevailing religion of our time. Nay more ; from this 
prison, it deems that thousands are daily carried to 
execution — plunged into a lake of fire — there to burn 
forever. And if the belief of its votaries actually came 
up to its creed, gaiety and joyousness in such a world, 
would be more misplaced and shocking a thousand 
times, than they would be in the gloomiest peniten- 
tiary that ever was builded. Is this fair and bright 
world — is God's world — such a place ? If it is, I am 
sure that it was not made for any rational and reflec- 
tive happiness ; but mountain to mountain, and conti- 
nent, and age to age, should echo nothing but sighs 
and groans. 

But if this world, instead of being a prison, is a 
school ; if all its appointed tasks are teachings ; if all 
its ordained employments are fit means for improve- 
ment, and all its proper amusements are the good re- 
creations of virtuous toil and endeavor ; if, however 
perverse and sinful men are, there is an element of 
good in all their lawful pursuits, and a diviner breathing 
in all their lawful affections ; if the ground whereon 
they tread is holy ground ; if there is a natural religion 
of life, answering, with however many a broken tone, 
to the religion of nature ; if there is a beauty and glory 
of humanity, answering, with however many a mingled 
shade, to the loveliness of soft landscapes and embo- 
soming hills and the overhanging glory of the deep, 
19 



122 



ON THE RELIGION OF LIFE. 



blue heavens ; — then all is changed. And it is changed 
not more for happiness than it is for virtue. 

For then do men find that they maybe virtuous, im- 
proving, religious, in their employments — that this is 
precisely what their employments were made for. 
Then will they find that all their social relations — 
friendship, love, family ties — were made to be holy. 
Then will they find that they may be religious, not by 
a kind of protest and resistance against their several 
vocations, but by conformity to their true spirit; that 
their vocations do not exclude religion but demand it 
for their own perfection ; that they may be religious 
laborers, whether in field or factory — religious physi- 
cians and lawyers — religious sculptors, painters and 
musicians ; that they may be religious in all the toils 
and amusements of life; that their life may be a reli- 
gion ; the broad earth, its altar — its incense, the very 
breath of life — and its fires kindled, ever kindled by 
the brightness of heaven. 



DISCOURSE XV. 



ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, AND 
WITH A GOOD LIFE. 



1 JOHN IV. 24. If a man say, I love God, and hateth 

HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR ; FOR HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS 
BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN ; HOW CAN HE LOVE GOD 
WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN 1 

If there is any mission for the true teacher to ac- 
complish in this age, it is to identify religion with 
goodness; to show that they are the same thing, — 
manifestations, that is to say, of the same principle — to 
show, in other words, and according to the Apostle, that 
no man is to be accounted a lover of God, who is not 
a lover of his brother. It is — I say again — to identify 
religion with morals, religion with virtue ; with jus- 
tice, truth, integrity, honesty, generosity, disinterested- 
ness — religion with the highest beauty and loveliness 
of character. This, I repeat, is the great mission, and 
message of the true teacher to-day. What it may be 
some other day — what transcendental thing may be 



224 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



waiting to be taught, I do not know; but this, I con- 
ceive is the practical business of religious instruction 
now. Let me not be misunderstood, as if I were sup- 
posed to say that this or any other mere doctrine, were 
the ultimate end of preaching. That is, to make men 
holy. But how shall any preaching avail to make men 
holy, unless it do rightly and clearly teach them what 
it is to be holy ? If they mistake here, all their labor 
to be religious, all their hearing of the word, Sabbath- 
keeping, praying, and striving, will be in vain. And 
therefore, I hold that to teach this, and especially to 
show that religion is not something else than a good 
heart, but is that very thing — this, I say, is the burden 
of the present time. 

I use now an old prophetic phrase, and I may remark 
here, that every time has its burden. In the times of the 
Old Testament, the burden of teaching was, to assert the 
supremacy and spirituality of God, in opposition to Idola- 
try. In the Christian time, it was to set forth that uni- 
versal and impartial, and that most real and true love 
which God has for his earthly creatures, in opposition to 
Jewish peculiarity and Pagan indifference and all human 
distrust — a love, declared by one who came from the 
bosom of the Father, sealed in his blood, and thus bring- 
ing nigh to God, a guilty, estranged, and unbelieving 
world. The burden of the Reformation time was to as- 
sert the freedom of religion ; to bring it out from the bond- 
age of human authority into the sanctuary of private 
judgment and sacred conscience. But now, religion hav- 
ing escaped from Pagan idolatry, and Jewish exclusion, 
and papal bondage, and survived many a controversy 
since, has encountered a deeper question concerning its 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



225 



own nature. What especially is religion itself? This I 
say, is the great question of the present day. It under- 
lies all our controversies. It is that which gives the main 
interest to every controversy. For whether the contro- 
versy be about forms or creeds, the vital question is whether 
this or that ritual or doctrine, ministers essentially 
to true religion ; so that if a man embraces some 
other system, he is fatally deficient of the vital means of 
salvation. And this brings us to the question, what is 
true religion itself? 

This question, as I have intimated, presses mainly upon 
a single point, which I will now state and argue as a con- 
tested point : viz. whether religion, in its essence, con- 
sists in a principle of rectitude, of goodness, in a simple 
and true love of the true and divine, or whether it con- 
sists in something else ; or in other words — whether it 
consists in certain intelligible affections, or in something, 
to the mass of men, unknown and unintelligible. 

This question craves some explanation, both that you 
may understand what it is, and may perceive that it is a 
question ; and I must bespeak your patience. 

In entering upon these points, let us consider, in the 
first place, what is the ground on which the general asser- 
tion in our text proceeds. 

There is, then, but one true principle in the mind, and 
that is the love of the true, the right, the holy. There is 
but one character of the soul, to which God has given his 
approbation, and with which he has connected the cer- 
tainty of happiness here and hereafter. There is some- 
thing in the soul which is made the condition of its salva- 
tion ; and that something is one thing, though it has many 
forms. It is sometimes called grace in the heart, some- 
19* 



226 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



times holiness, righteousness, conformity to the character 
of God ; but the term for it, most familiar in popular use, 
is religion. The constant question is, when a man's spir- 
itual safety or well-being is the point for consideration — - 
when he is going to die, and men would know whether he 
is to be happy hereafter — has he got religion ? or has he 
been a religious man? I must confess that I do not like 
this use of the term. I am accustomed to consider reli- 
gion as reverence and love towards God ; and to consider 
it therefore, as only one part of rectitude or excellence. 
But you know that it commonly stands for the whole of 
that character which God requires of us. Now what I 
am saying is, that this character is, in principle, one thing. 
It is, being right ; and being right is but one thing. It 
has many forms ; but only one essence. It may be the 
love of God, and then it is piety. It may be the love of 
men, and then it m philanthropy. But the love of God, 
and the love of man as bearing his image, are in essence 
the same thing. Or to discriminate with regard to this 
second table of the law ; it may be a love of men's happi- 
ness, and then it is the very image of God's benevolence ; 
or it may be the love of holiness in men, of their good- 
ness, justice, truth, virtue, and then it is a love of the 
same things that form, when infinitely exalted, the charac- 
ter of God. All these forms of excellence, if they cannot 
be resolved into one principle, are certainly parts of one 
great consciousness, the consciousness of right ; they at 
any rate have the strictest alliance; they are inseparably 
bound together as parts of one whole; the very nature of 
true excellence in one form, is a pledge for its existence 
in every other form. He who has the right principle in 
him, is a lover of God, and a lover of good men, and a lover 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



227 



of all goodness and purity, and a laborer for the happiness 
of all around him. The tree is one, though the branches 
and the leaves and the blossoms, be many and various ; 
all spring from one vital germ ; so that the Apostle, in 
our text, will not allow it to be said, that a man is a lover 
of God, who does not love his brethren of the human 
family. 

Now it may surprise you at first, to hear it asserted, 
that this apparently reasonable account of the matter, 
does not accord with the popular judgment. To this point 
of explanation therefore, I must invite your attention, lest 
I seem to fight as one that beateth the air. 
| It is true then, that it is admitted in general, that the 
christian, the object of God's favor here and hereafter 
must be a good man ; a just, honest, pure, benevolent 
man. These admissions are general and vague. We 
must penetrate into this matter, with some more discrimi- 
nating enquiry. What is it, specifically, that makes a 
man, spiritually a christian, and entitles him to hope for 
future happiness ? The common answer is ; it is religion, 
it is piety, it is grace in the heart, it is being converted, it 
is being in Christ, and being a new creature. These 
phrases I might comment upon, if I had time, and I might 
show that they have a very true and just meaning. But 
what is the meaning that they actually convey to most 
hearers? What is this inmost and saving principle of 
religion — this grace or godliness — thisspirit of the regene- 
rated man ? Is it not something peculiar to the regenerate 
— -not something more of goodness in them than in other 
men, but something different in them from goodness in 
others ? — Is it not something possessed by them alone, un- 
shared with the rest of the world, unknown, completely 



228 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



unknown and in fact, inconceivable to the great body of 
mankind? Are not the saints — God's people as they are 
called — supposed to have some secret of experience wrapped 
up in them, with which the stranger intermeddleth not — 
of which the world knowetb nothing? I do not wish to 
have this so understood, if it is not true. r But if it is true, 
it is too serious a point to be tampered with or treated with 
any fastidious delicacy : I say then plainly and earnestly, 
is it not true? If you ask most men around you what is 
that gracious state of the heart, which is produced by the 
act of regeneration, will they not say that they do not know? 
And all that they can say about it — provided they have 
any serious thoughts — will it not be this — that they hope 
they shall know some time or other. But they know 
what truth, kindness, honesty, self-denial, disinterestedness 
are. They know, or suppose that they know, what peni- 
tence, sorrow for doing wrong is. Gratitude to God, also 
— the love of God, they deem, is no enigma to them. They 
certainly have some idea of these qualities. I do not say 
how much, by experience, they know of all these things; 
but I say they have some idea of what these things mean. 
If then they are told, and if they believe, that all this does 
not reach to the true idea of religion, it follows that reli- 
gion must be, in their account, some enigma or mystery 
— it is some inconceivable effect of divine grace, or moving 
of gracious affections in the heart ; it must be something 
different from all that men are wont to call goodness, ex- 
cellence, loveliness. 

But to make this still plainer, if need be ; what, let it be 
asked, are most men looking for and desiring, when they 
seek religion. In a Revival of religion, as it is termed, 
what is the anxious man seeking? Is it not something as 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



229 



completely strange and foreign to his ordinary experience, 
as would be the effect of the mystery called Animal Mag- 
netism ? A man is declining into the vale of years, or he 
is lying upon the bed of death, and he wants religion — 
wants that something which will prepare him for a happy 
hereafter. He has got beyond the idea that the priest can 
save him, or that extreme unction can save him, or that 
any outward rite can save him. He knows that it must be 
something in his own soul. And now, what shall it be? 
What does he set himself to do, or to seek % What is the 
point about which his anxious desires are hovering ? " Oh ! 
that that thing could be wrought in me, on which all de- 
pends ! I know not what it is ; but I want it ; I pray for 
it." And this something that is to be done in him, is some- 
thing that can be done in a moment ! Can any thing be 
plainer then, than this which I am saying — that he is not 
looking to the increase and strengthening and perfection 
of truth, kindness, disinterestedness, humility, gratitude to 
God, to save him — not for the increase and strengthening 
of any thing that is already in him ; but for the lodgment 
in him, of something new that will save him. He does 
not set himself, in seeking religion, about the cultivation 
of known affections, but about the attainment of unknown 
affections. 

Look again for further proof, at the language of the 
popular religion, whether heard from the pulpit, or 
coming from the press. What is more common than 
to hear morality decried, and the most lovely virtue 
disparaged, in comparison with something called grace 
in the heart? Morality is allowed to be a very good 
thing for this world, but no preparation for the next; 
or it is insisted on as a consequence of grace, but is 



230 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



considered as no part of grace itself; or if it is admit- 
ted that by an infusion of grace, morality may become 
a holy thing, still, by this supposition, the grace main- 
tains its position as the distinct, peculiar and primal 
essence of virtue. Observe that I do not say that any 
body preaches against kindness, honesty and truth- 
telling, absolutely. Nay, they are insisted on. But 
in what character ? Why, as evidences of that other 
thing, called religion or grace. They are not that 
thing, nor any part of it ; but only evidences of it. 
And observe too that if it were only said, that much 
that is called morality and kindness, is not real moral- 
ity or kindness; that the ordinary standard of virtue 
is too low and needs to be raised ; to that discrimina- 
tion, I should have nothing to object. But the point 
maintained is, that nothing that is called simple kind- 
ness or morality, ever comes or ever can, by any in- 
crease, come up to the character of saving virtue. 

There is one further and decisive consideration 
which I am reluctant to mention, but which I will sug- 
gest, because it is, first of all, necessary that I should 
clearly make out the case, upon which my discourse 
proceeds. The Church has ever been accustomed to 
hold that the virtues of heretics are nothing-worth. 
Now suppose a case. Here is a body of men, called 
heretics : protestants they were once — Church of Eng- 
land men, puritans, presbyterians. No age has wanted 
the instance. Here is a body of men, I say, called 
heretics. To all human view, they are as amiable, 
affectionate and true-hearted ; as honest, diligent and 
temperate, as any other people. They profess to re- 
verence religion too ; they build churches, meet to- 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



231 



gether for worship ; and their worship seems as hearty 
and earnest as any other. By any standard of judging 
save that of theology, they appear to be as good and 
devout men as any other. Now what does the popular 
theology — what does the pulpit, say of them ? Why 
this — briefly and summarily, — that they have no reli- 
gion. They may be very good men, very amiable, 
kind, honest and true, and after their manner, devout ; 
but they have no religion. Is not the case clear? 
Must not religion be a secret in the bosom of these 
confident judges? They must know what it is: but 
others do not know and cannot find out. We must sit 
down in silence and despair ; for we can know nothing 
about it. Or if we say any thing, there is nothing for 
us but to say with Job, " no doubt, ye are the men, 
and wisdom shall die with you !" But this, at least, is 
clear; whatever this religion is, of which they speak 
— whether it consist in a certain belief, or in some se- 
cretly imparted grace, it must be something different 
from all that men generally understand, by goodness 
and devotion. 

In short the prevailing idea of religion, is, unques- 
tionably, that it is some heavenly visitant to the soul ; 
some divine guest that takes up its abode there ; some 
essence or effluence, not merely proceeding from God 
as its cause — which it does — but partaking of unknown 
attributes ; something that comes into the soul from 
without, and is sustained there by a foreign influence ; 
something that is, at a certain time, created in the heart 
and is totally unlike any thing that was there before ; 
something that is ingrafted upon our nature and does 
not, in any sense, grow out of it ; something in fine, 



232 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



that is put into us, and does not, in any sense, spring 
out of us — is not originally the result of any culture 
or care of ours — is not wrought out of any materials 
found in us — not reducible to any ordinary laws of 
cause and effect; but is the result of a special and su- 
pernatural working of divine power, brought to bear 
upon us. This doctrine, as I have latterly stated it, is 
undoubtedly modified by some of the New Schools of 
Theology that are rising around us ; and this whole 
idea of religion is, doubtless, rejected by some ortho- 
dox persons ; as it was completely rejected in the old 
English theology of Paley and Bishop Butler ; but it 
is nevertheless very generally taught in this country, 
and it is the faith, or rather the fear and trouble of the 
multitude. 

Nor do I know of any recent modification of the 
prevailing Theolog3 r , that materially affects the point 
now before us. When I say that, according to that 
theology, religion is not wrought out of any materials 
found in us, it may be thought that I do injustice to the 
views of some of its adherents. They hold perhaps 
that the necessary powers are within us ; and simply 
maintain that they have never been rightly exercised, 
and that without a special impulse from above, they 
never will be. On this supposition, the moral facul- 
ties of our nature, stand like machinery, waiting for 
the stream of influence that is to move them. In the 
unregenerate nature, they have never been moved, or 
have never been rightly moved ; and they never will 
be, by any power among them or inherent in them. 
That motion or that right motion when it comes, will 
be religion. But on this supposition, is not religion a 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



233 



thing, still and equally unknown ? Can the unregene- 
rate man foresee — can he conjecture, what that motion 
will be? Can any body understand what it is — saving 
and excepting the converted man himself? 

I suppose that this conclusion is incontrovertible ; 
and I presume that almost every convert to the popu- 
lar forms of religion, would be found to say ; "I can- 
not tell you what it is that I have got — I cannot tell 
you what religion is : but I know by experience what 
it is ; and that is enough for me." 

This view of religion, I propose to make the subject 
of some free discussion. It demands the most seri- 
ous consideration ; and I do not remember that it has 
received at any hand, the attention that it deserves. 

I shall first state the opposite, and as I conceive, 
the true view of religion, and briefly show why it is 
true : and I shall then proceed to consider more at 
large, the consequences that must result and do re- 
sult, from the prevailing, and as I conceive, the false 
view. 

And here let me distinctly observe, that I am not 
about to consider these consequences as matters fo- 
reign and indifferent to ourselves. They belong to us 
indeed, as they concern the general state of religion in 
the world. But they concern us yet more nearly, as 
they enter more or less into the state of our own 
minds. No age can escape the influence of the past. 
The moral history of the world, is a stream, that is not 
to be cut off at a single point. In us, doubtless, are to 
be .found, the relics of all past creeds, of all past 
errors. 

But before I proceed to these consequences, I am 
20 



234 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



briefly to state and defend what I conceive to be the 
true view of religion, as a principle in the mind. 

For statement then I say, in the first place, that all men 
know what God requires of them — what affections, what 
virtues, what graces, what emotions of penitence and 
piety ; in the second place, that all men have a capacity 
for these affections and some exercise of them, however 
slight and transient ; and in the third place, that what 
God requires, what constitutes the salvation of the soul, 
is the culture, strengthening, enlargement, predominance 
of these very affections ; that he who makes that con- 
science and rectitude and self-denial, and penitence and 
sacred love of God which he already perceives and feels, 
or has felt in himself, however imperfectly — he who makes 
these affections the fixed, abiding, and victorious habits of 
his soul, is accepted with God, and must be happy in time 
and in eternity. 

This is the statement ; and for defence of this view of 
religion, I submit its own reasonableness ; nay, and I con- 
tend for its absolute certainty as a matter of Scriptural 
interpretation. 

First, its reasonableness. For if men, if all men do not 
know what religion is, they do not know what is required 
of them. To say that God demands that to be done in 
us and by us, of which we have no conception or no just 
conception, is to make a statement which carries with it 
its own refutation. To make a mystery of a commandment, 
is a solecism amounting to absolute self-contradiction. 
Again, we could not know what are the affections that are 
required of us, unless it were by some experience of 
them. It is philosophically impossible — it is, in the nature 
of things, impossible that we should. No words, no sym- 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



235 



bols could teach us what moral or spiritual emotion is, 
unless we had in ourselves, some feeling of what it is ; 
any more than they could teach a blind man what it is to 
see, or a deaf man what it is to hear. Excellence, holi- 
ness, justice, disinterestedness, love, are words which 
never could have any meaning to us, if the originals, the 
germs of those qualities were not within us. Let any per- 
son ask himself what he understands by love — the love of 
man or of God — and how he obtained the idea of that af- 
fection ; and he will find that he understands it, because 
he feels it or has, sometime or other, felt it. Once more ; 
I have said that these feelings of benevolence and piety, 
cultivated into the predominant habit of the soul, are the 
very virtues and graces that are required of us. And is 
not this obviously true ? We all know by something of 
experience, what it is to love those around us ; to wish 
them well ; to be kindly affectioned and mercifully dis- 
posed towards them. And we all have had some tran- 
sient emotions at least, of gratitude and love to the Infinite 
Father. Now if all these affections were to fill our hearts, 
and shine in our lives always, what would this be, but 
that character in which all true religion and happiness 
are bound up ? 

Thus reasonable is the ground which we are defending. 
But I have said also, that it is certain, from the principles 
that must govern us in the interpretation of Scripture. 
The Bible addresses itself to the world, and demands a cer- 
tain character. In describing that character it adopts 
terms in common use. It tells us that we must be lovers 
of God, and lovers of men ; that we must be gentle, for- 
bearing and forgiving; true, pure, and faithful. Now if 
it does not mean by these words as to their radical sense, 



236 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



what we all mean by them ; if it uses them in an alto- 
gether extraordinary and unintelligible manner, then, in 
the first place, it teaches nothing ; and next, it leads us 
into fatal error. The conclusion is inevitable. What 
the Bible presupposes to be a right knowledge of religion, 
is a right knowledge. 

I am not denying that we are to grow in this knowledge, 
through experience ; and that, from our want of this en- 
lightening experience, much is said to us in the Scrip- 
tures of our own blindness : much of the new light that 
will break in upon us, with the full experience of the power 
of the Gospel. But to a world totally blind, wrapped in 
total darkness, and having no conception of what light is, 
the Bible would not have spoken of light. The word 
stands for an idea. If the idea, and the just idea did not 
exist, the word would not be used. 

There is then a light in the human soul, amidst all its 
darkness ; an inward light ; a divine light ; a light, which 
if it were increased instead of being dimmed, would shine 
brighter and brighter, even to the perfect day. Let any 
man have taken the best feeling that ever was in him — 
some feeling, however transient, of kindness to his fellow, 
or some emotion of reverence and gratitude to his Crea- 
tor — let him have taken that feeling and all that class of 
feelings, and cultivated and carried it up to an abiding 
habit of mind, and he would have become a good and pious 
man. This change, from transient to habitual emotions 
of goodness and piety, is the very regeneration that is re- 
quired of us. The being so changed would be "born 
again," would be "a new creature;" "old things with 
him would have passed away, and ail things would have 
become new." 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



237 



Now, according to the common doctrine, instead of 
this slow, thorough, intelligible and practical change, 
we are to look for a new and unknown element to be in- 
troduced among our affections. A man feels that he must 
become a christian, that he must obtain that character on 
which all happiness, here and hereafter, depends. And 
now what does he do ? Finding in himself an emotion of 
good-will, of affection for his neighbor, does he fasten 
upon that, and say, " this must I cherish and cultivate into 
a genuine philanthropy and a disinterested love ?" Feel- 
ing the duty of being honest, does he say, " this practical 
conscience must I erect into a law?" Sensible, in some 
gracious hour, of the goodness of God or the worth of a 
Saviour, does he say, " let me keep and bear upon my 
heart, the reverent and sacred impression ?" No, all this, 
the popular theology repudiates, and represents as a go- 
ing about to establish our own righteousness. " No, it 
says, you must feel that you can do nothing yourself; 
you must cast yourself a helpless, despairing sinner upon 
the mercy of God ; you must not look to the powers of a 
totally depraved nature to help you at all ; you must cast 
yourself wholly upon Christ ; you must look to the re- 
newing power of the Holy Ghost, and to the creation in 
you of something totally different from any thing that is 
in you now." 

The question between these two views of religion is 
certainly one of a very serious character ; one on which 
momentous consequences depend. And it is a question 
too, which concerns not one or another form of sectarian 
faith alone, but the entire condition of Christianity in the 
world. The idea of religion on which I have dwelt so 
much in this discourse with a view to controvert it, has 
20* 



238 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



penetrated the whole mass of religious opinion. No body 
of Christians has entirely escaped it ; not even our own ; 
though our characteristic position, as I conceive, at the 
present moment, is one of protest against it. I say at the 
present moment. We have gone through with the specu- 
lative controversy. It may be renewed, no doubt ; but 
there will be hardly anything new to be said upon it. 
We have gone through, then, with the argument about 
the Trinity, the Atonement, Election, and such specula- 
tive matters ; and we have come now to the greater ques- 
tion, what is religion itself ? And what we say, is, that 
religion is a principle, deep-imbedded in the conscience 
and consciousness of all mankind, and that from these 
germs of it, which are to be found in human nature, it is 
to be cultivated and carried up to perfection. What is 
maintained on the contrary is that religion, the true and 
saving religion, is a principle of which human nature is 
completely ignorant ; that to make a man a christian, is 
to implant in him a principle, entirely new, and before 
unknown. Whether it be called a principle, or a new 
mode of spiritual action — for some may prefer the latter 
description — it is the same thing in this respect. The 
man unregenerate, according to this teaching, can no 
more tell what he is to feel when made regenerate, than 
a man can anticipate what a shock of electricity will be, 
or what will be the effect upon his system of a new poison ; 
or what would be the experience of a sixth sense. 

The establishment of this point is so material in this 
whole discussion, that I shall occupy the few moments 
that remain to me, with the attempt to relieve the 
views I have offered, from all misapprehension. 

Let it then be distinctly observed, in the first place, 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



239 



that the question is not at all about the nature or ne- 
cessity or degree of divine influence. Not, what power 
from above, is exerted to produce religion in the soul, 
but vvhac the religion is, however produced; not what 
divine aid is given to human endeavor, but what is the 
nature and result of that endeavor ; not what grace 
from God, but what grace in man, is — this is the ques- 
tion. Of course, we believe in general, that all true 
religion, in common with every thing else good, pro- 
ceeds from God. And for myself, I firmly believe, 
that it pleases the Almighty, to give special assistance 
to the humble and prayerful efforts of his weak and 
tempted creatures ; and this, not only when those ef- 
forts are resolutely commenced, but in every successive 
step of the religious course ; not merely nor peculiarly 
in the hour of conversion, but equally in the whole 
process of the soul's sanctification. I know of no Scrip- 
ture warrant for supposing that this divine influence is 
limited to any particular season, or is concentrated 
upon any particular exigency of the soul's experience. 

In the next place, I do not say that the notion of re- 
ligion as a mystery or an enigma, embraces or usurps 
the whole of the popular idea of religion. When I 
shall come to speak of the injurious consequences of 
this idea, I shall maintain that an enigma cannot be the 
object of any moral admiration, or love, or culture, or 
sensibility ; and I may then be asked if I mean to say 
that there is no religious goodness or earnestness 
among those who embrace this idea. And to this, I 
answer beforehand and decidedly, "no, I do not mean 
to say this." If the idea were not modified nor quali- 
fied in any way, if no other ideas mixed themselves up 



240 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



with that of a mystic religion, this would be the result. 
It is seldom that error practically stands alone. Still 
it is proper to single it out, and to consider it by itself. 
And I do maintain too, that this error predominates 
sufficiently to exert the most disastrous influence upon 
the religion of the whole christian world. 

The whole of Christianity as it is commonly receiv- 
ed, is, in my view, greatly perverted, corrupted and 
enfeebled by this error. Christianity is not regarded, 
as a clearer and more impressive exhibition of the long 
established, well known, eternal laws of man's spir- 
itual welfare, but as the bringing in of an entirely new 
scheme of salvation. The common interpretation of 
it, instead of recognizing the liberal Apostolic doctrine, 
that the way of salvation is known to all men, that 
those not having the written law are a law to them- 
selves, and that in every nation he that worships God 
and works righteousness, is accepted of him, holds 
in utter derogation and sovereign scorn, all heathen 
light and virtue. The prevailing idea is, that the Gos- 
pel is a certain device or contrivance of divine wisdom, 
to save men — not helping them in the way which they 
already perceive in their own consciousness, but super- 
seding all such ways and laying them aside entirely — 
not opening and unfolding new lights and encourage- 
ments to that way, by revelations of God's paternal 
mercy and pledges of his forgiving love, but revealing 
a way altogether new. 

Thus the Gospel itself is made a kind of mystic se- 
cret. I cannot allow a few of the more intelligent 
expounders of it to reply, as if that were sufficient, 
that they do not regard it in this light. I ask them to 



RELIGION "WITH GOODNESS. 



241 



consider what is the general impression conveyed by- 
most preachers of Christianity. They may be offend- 
ed when we say that vital religion is commonly repre- 
sented, as a mystery, an enigma, to the mass of their 
hearers. But let us not dispute about words. They do 
represent it as something created in the heart, which 
was not there before — of which no element was there 
before — of which no man's previous experience ever 
gives him any information, any conception. If this is 
not a mystery to mankind, it would be difficult to tell 
what there is, that deserves the name. Suppose the 
same thing to be applied to men's general knowledge. 
Men know many things; but suppose it were asserted 
that in all their knowing there is not one particle of 
true knowledge, and that only here and there one, who 
has been specially and divinely enlightened, possesses 
any such knowledge. Would not such knowledge 
then, be a secret shared by a few, and kept from the 
rest of the world ? Would it not be a profound mys- 
tery to the mass of mankind ? Yes ; and a mystery ail 
the darker for the seeming light that surrounded it! 

How much is there that passes in the bosom of so- 
ciety, unquestioned and almost unknown ! Ft is this 
which prevents us from seeing the momentous fact and 
the character of the fact, which I have now been at- 
tempting to strip bare and to lay before you. It would 
seem that we least know that which is nearest to us, 
which is most familiar and most certain, which is mix- 
ed up most intimately with all present thought and 
usage, and with the life that we daily live. A thing 
must become history, it would seem, before we can 
fairly read it. This is commonly allowed to be true 



I 



242 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



of political affairs; but it is just as true of all human 
experience. Thus, if there had been a sect, among 
the old philosophers, which pretended to hold the ex- 
clusive possession of all science ; if certain persons 
had stood up in the ancient time, and said, " that which 
other men call science, is all an illusion ; we alone 
truly know any thing ; all other men are but fools and 
idiots in this matter ; they suppose themselves to 
know, but they know nothing ; they use words, and 
make distinctions aud write books, as if they knew, 
but they know nothing ; they do not even know, what 
knowing is ;" such a pretension we should not hesi- 
tate to characterize as a strange mixture of mysticism 
and arrogance. But the same assumption in regard to 
religion, is now put forth among ourselves ; it is an- 
nounced every week from the pulpit ; it is constantly 
written in books ; it enters into every argument about 
total depravity and regeneration and divine grace ; and 
men seem totally insensible to its enormity; it is re- 
garded as a mark of peculiar wisdom and sanctity ; 
the men who take this ground, are the accredited 
christian teachers of multitudes; they speak as if the 
secret of the matter were in them, and as if they were 
perfectly entitled, in virtue of a certain divine illumi- 
nation which they have received, to pronounce all 
other religious claims to be groundless and false ; to 
say of all other men but the body of the elect, " they 
think they know what religion is; they talk about it ; 
they make disquisitions and distinctions as if they 
knew, but they know nothing about it: they do not 
even know what true religious knowing is." And all 
the peoplejsay, amen. There is no rebuke ; there is 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



243 



no questioning- ; the light of coming ages has not yet 
shone upon this pretension ; and the people say, it is 
all very right — very true. 

I pray you, in fine, not to regard what I have now been 
saying as a sectarian remonstrance. Nay, and if it were 
so, it would not be likely to be half strong enough. There 
is a heavy indifference on this subject of religion that 
weighs down remonstrance, and will not let it rise as it 
ought. If certain ship-masters or merchants should say 
that they only understood navigation ; if certain mecha- 
nicians or manufacturers should assert that they only un- 
derstood their art or their business ; if certain lawyers or 
physicians should lay exclusive claim to the knowledge of 
law or medicine, there would be an outburst of indignation 
and scorn on every hand. "What presumption! what 
folly ! these people are deranged !" — would be the excla- 
mation. But men may make this claim in religion; a 
few persons comparatively in Christendom, may say, 41 we 
only have religion ; we alone truly know what religion is ;" 
and the indifference of society replies, " no matter ; let 
them claim it ; let them have it;" as if the matter were 
not worth disputing about. And if some one arouses him- 
self to examine and to resist this claim, indifference still 
says, "this is but a paltry, sectarian dispute." 

No, sirs, I answer, this is not a sectarian dispute. It is 
not a sectarian remonstrance that is demanded here; but 
the remonstrance of all human experience. Religion is 
the science of man's intrinsic and immortal welfare. 
What is a true knowledge, what is a true experience here, 
is a question of nothing less than infinite moment. All 
that a man is to enjoy or suffer for ever, depends upon the 
right, practical solution of this very question. Every 



244 



ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION, &C. 



where else — in business, in science, in his profession — may 
a man mistake with comparative impunity. But if he mis- 
takes here — if he does not know, and know by experience, 
what it is to be good and pure, what it is to love God and 
to be conformed to his image, he is, in spite of all that men 
or angels can do fur him, a ruined creature, 

Settle it then with yourselves, my Brethren, what true 
religion, true goodness, is. I will attempt in some further 
discourses, to lead you to the inferences that follow from 
this discussion. But it is so fruitful in obvious inferences 
that I am willing for the present to leave it with you, for 
your reflections. But this I say now. Settle it with your- 
selves what true religion is. If it is a mystery, then leave 
no means untried to become acquainted with that mystery. 
If it is but the cultivation, the increase in you, of what you 
already know and feel to be right, then address yourselves 
to that work of self-culture, as men who know that more 
than fortunes and honors depend upon it — who know that 
the soul, that heaven, that eternity, depends upon it. 



DISCOURSE XVL 



ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS AND 
WITH A GOOD LIFE. 



1 JOHN IV. 20. — If a man say, i love god, and hateth 

HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR; FOR HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS 
BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN; HOW CAN HE LOVE GOD 
WHOM HE HATH NOT SEEN ? 

I have presented, in my last discourse, two views of re- 
ligion, or of the supreme human excellence ; and I have 
offered some brief, but as I conceive, decisive considera- 
tions, to show which is the right view. The one regards 
religion or the saving virtue, as a new creation in the soul; 
the other as the culture of what is already in the soul. 
The one contemplates conversion as the introduction of an 
entirely new element, or of an entirely new mode of action, 
into our nature; the other, as a strengthening, elevating 
and confirming of the conscience, the reverence and the 
love that are already a part of our nature. A simple com- 
parison drawn from vegetable nature will show the dif- 
ference. Here is a garden of plants. The rational gar- 
dener looks upon them all as having in them, the elements 

21 



240 



ON THE IDENTITY OP 



of growth and perfection. His business is to cultivate 
them. To make the comparison [more exact — he sees 
that these plants have lost their proper beauty and shape- 
liness, that they are distorted and dwarfed, and choked with 
weeds. But still the germs of improvement are in them, 
and his business is to cultivate them. But now what does 
the theological gardener say % " No, in not one of these 
plants, is to be found the germ of the right production. 
To obtain this, it is necessary to graft upon each one, a 
new principle of life." 

Now I have said, that, upon the theory in question, this 
new creation, this new element, this graft upon the stock 
of humanity, is, and must be to the mass of mankind, a 
mystery, an enigma, a profound secret. And is not this 
obviously true ? Man, in a state of nature, it is constantly 
taught, has not one particle of the true saving excellence. 
How then should he know what it is? " Very true," says 
the popular theorist ; " I accept the conclusion; is it not 
written, the natural man receiveth not the things of God, 
neither can he know them, because they are spiritually 
discerned " That is to say, the popular theorist under- 
stands by the natural man, in this much quoted and much 
misunderstood passage, human 'nature. If he construed it 
to mean, the sensual man, I conceive that he would arrive 
at a just exposition. But that is not the point in question 
now. He does construe it to mean human nature ; this is 
constantly done. Human nature being nothing but one 
mass of unmingled depravity — having never had one right 
motion or one right feeling, can, of course, have no know- 
ledge of any such motion or feeling. 

And to show that this is not a matter of doctrine only, 
but of experience too, let me spread before you a single 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



247 



supposition of what often, doubtless takes place in fact. A 
man of generally fair and unexceptionable life, is lying upon 
his bed of death, and is visited and questioned, with a view to 
his spiritual condition. Suppose now he were to say, "I 
have had for some time past, though I never confessed it 
before, a certain, unusual, indescribable feeling in my heart 
on the subject of religion. It came upon me — for I re- 
member it well — in such a month of such a year ; it was 
a new feeling; I had never felt any thing like it before. 
Ever since, I have bad a hope that I then experienced re- 
ligion. Not that I trust myself, or any thing in myself; 
I cast all my burthen upon Christ; nothing but Christ — 
nothing but Christ, is the language upon my lips with 
which I would part from this world ;" and would not this 
declaration, I ask, though conveying not one intelligible or 
definite idea to the most of those around him, he held to be 
a very satisfactory account of his preparation for futurity? 
But now suppose that he should express himself in a 
different manner, and should utter the thoughts of his 
heart thus. " I know that I am far from perfect, that I 
have, in many things, been very unfaithful ; I see much 
to repent of, for which I hope and implore God's for- 
giveness. But I do trust that, for a number of years, I 
have been growing in goodness ; that I have had a 
stronger and stronger control over my passions. Alas ! 
I remember sad and mournful years, in which they 
had dominion over me ; but I do trust that I did at 
length gain the victory ; and that latterly, I have be- 
come, every year, more and more pure, kind, gentle, 
patient, disinterested, spiritual and devout. I feel that 
God's presence, in which, I am ever happiest, has been 
more abidingly with me ; and in short I hope that the 



248 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



foundations of true happiness, have been laid deep in 
my soul ; and that, through God's mercy, of which I 
acknowledge the most adorable manifestation and the 
most blessed pledge in the Gospel, I shall be happy 
forever." And now [ ask you — do you not think that 
this account, with many persons, would have lost just 
as much in satisfactoriness as it has gained in clear- 
ness ? Would not some of the wise, the guides in 
Israel, go away, shaking their heads, and saying, they 
feared it would never do? "Too much talk about his 
own virtues !" — they would say — " too little about 
Christ !" — with an air itself mysterious in that solemn 
reference. And doubtless, if this man had talked 
more mystically about Christ, and grace, and the holy 
Spirit, it would have been far more satisfactory. And 
yet he has stated, and clearly stated, the essential 
grounds of all human welfare and hope. 

How often in life — to take another instance — does 
a highly moral and excellent man say, " I hope I am 
not a bad man ; I mean to do right ; I trust I am not 
devoid of all kind and generous affections towards my 
fellow-men, or of all grateful feelings towards my 
Maker ; but then I do not profess to have religion. I 
do not pretend that I am a christian in any degree." 
Let not my construction of this case, be mistaken. 
Doubtless in many such persons there are great de- 
fects ; nay, and defects proceeding partly from the very 
error which I am combatting. For if I were to say to 
such persons, "yes, you have some good and pious 
affections in you, which God approves, and your only 
business is, to give the supremacy to these very affec- 
tions which are already in you" — I should be thought 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 249 

to have lulled his conscience, fostered his pride, and 
ruined his soul. I should be regarded as a worldly 
moralizer, a preacher of smooth things, a follower of 
the long doomed heresy of Pelagius. "No," it would 
be said, 44 there is no saving virtue in that man ; there 
is nothing in him that can be strengthened, or refined 
or elevated or confirmed into holiness ; there is no 
spark to be fanned into a flame, no germ to be reared 
into saving life and beauty ; all these things are to be 
flung aside to make way for the reception of some- 
thing altogether new — as new as light to the blind or 
as life to the dead. That something, when it comes, 
will be what he never knew before, never lei t before, 
never before clearly saw or conceived of; and it is, 
undoubtedly, though that is an unusual way of describ- 
ing it — it is, to depraved human nature, a mystery." 

This unquestionable assumption of the popular reli- 
gion, 1 shall now proceed freely to discuss in several 
points of view — in its bearing on the estimate and 
treatment of religion, on its culture, and on its essen- 
tial vitality and power. 

In the present discourse I shall consider its bearing 
on the estimate, and on the treatment of religion. 

First, the general estimate of the nature, reasona- 
bleness and beauty of religion — what can it be, if reli- 
gion is a mystery, an enigma, a thing unknown 1 We 
may feel curiosity about, a mystery; and I have seen 
more than one person, seeking religion from this im- 
pulse — because they would know what it can be. 
This is uncommon doubtless ; but taken in any view 
— can men be in love with a mystery ? Can they feel 
any moral admiration for an enigma? Can their aflfec- 
21* 



250 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



tions be strongly drawn to what is completely un- 
known ? Can they feel even the rectitude of that, of 
which they have no appreciation — no idea ? Certainly 
not; and in accordance with this view, is the old Cal- 
vinistic doctrine concerning the means of grace ; which 
utterly denied the force of moral suasion, and held that 
there is no natural tendency in preaching to change 
the heart; that the connection between preaching and 
regeneration was as purely arbitrary as that between 
the voice of Ezekiel over the valley of dry bones and 
their resurrection to life. 

But suppose this view of preaching be modified, 
and that a man designs to impress his hearers with the 
reasonableness and beauty of religion, and so to draw 
their hearts to it. What, let us ask him, can you do, 
upon the principle that religion is utterly foreign to 
human nature — an absolute secret to humanity? You 
have denied and rejected the only means of rational 
impression — some knowledge and experience in the 
hearers, of that about which you are speaking to them. 
You have disannulled the very laws and grounds of 
penitence ; for how can men feel to blame for not pos- 
sessing the knowledge of a secret? In fine, you may 
be a magician to men, upon this principle ; but I do 
not perceive how you can be a rational preacher. You 
may say, "this, of which I speak to you, is something 
wonderful ; try it; you have no idea what it will be 
to you ; you will find — you cannot say, you see — 
but, " you will find that it is something delightful and 
beautiful beyond all things." And have we never wit- 
nessed a preaching which seemed to work upon the 
hearers, as it were, by a kind of art magic : solemn 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



251 



and affecting tones, a preternatural air, a talking as of 
some secret in heaven ready to come right down into 
the hearts of the hearers if they will: an awful expos- 
tulation with them for their refusal ; a mysterious in- 
fluence drawn around the place; dark depths of woe 
here ; a bright haze of splendor there ; heaven above, 
hell beneath ; and the sinner suspended between them 
by a parting cord ! And how, oh ! how, was he now 
to escape ? Mark the answer — for if there ever was a 
mystery, here is one. By some stupendous change 
then and there to take place ; not by rationally cultivat- 
ing any good affections — not by solemnly resolving to 
do so — not at all by that kind of change ; but by a 
change instant, immense, mysterious, incomprehensible 
— a change that would wrap up in that moment the des- 
tinies of eternity — that should gather up all the welfare 
or woe of the infinite ages of being, into the mysterious 
bosom of that awful moment ! 

Can such teaching as this, go to the silent depths of 
real and rational conviction ? Did Jesus Christ teach 
in this manner? Think how natural, how moral, how 
simple, his teachings were. Think how he taught men 
their duty in every form, which the instant occasion, 
suggested. Think of his deep sobriety, of his solemn 
appeals to conscience rather than to imagination, to 
what was in man rather than what was out of him ; 
and then answer me. Did the great Bible preachers, 
teach so? Behold the beauty of holiness, they say, 
behold the glory of the Lord ; " know and see that 
it is an evil thing and bitter to depart" from them. 
" Come ye children and I will teach you the fear of 
the Lord. What man is he that desireth life and loveth 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



many days that he may see good ? Keep ihy tongue 
from evil, and thy lips from speaking guile. Depart 
from evil and do good ; seek peace and pursue it. The 
eyes of the Lord are upon such righteous ones, and his 
ears are open to their cry." All simple ; all intelligi- 
ble ; all plain and level to the humblest apprehension ; 
no talking of a mysterious secret here ; no mysterious 
talking any way ! 

It is very difficult to speak the exact and undisputed 
truth upon any point, amidst the endless shapings and 
shadowings of language and opinion. I myself, who 
protest against making a secret of religion, may be 
found speaking of most men as very ignorant of reli- 
gion ; of the depths of the Gospel as yet to be sounded 
by them ; of the preciousness of the great resource as 
yet to be felt — yet to be found out by them. But I 
am well understood, by those who are accustomed to 
hear me, not to mean any thing, which is radically a 
secret to humanity, but simply the increase and con- 
summation in the soul, of that which it already knows 
and experiences. The change from transient and un- 
stable, to habitual and abiding emotions of goodness 
and piety, is the most immense, the most important, 
the most glorious on earth ; and it is one, of which 
those who are ignorant of it, cannot clearly foresee all 
the blessed fruits. 

Again, it is very difficult to describe what is deemed 
a great error, without seeming to do it harshly. I 
would gladly avoid this imputation. God forbid that 
I should speak lightly of the preaching of good and 
earnest men. I must speak plainly of it. I must re- 
monstrate against what I deem to be its errors. But 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



253 



I do not forget that with all error there is a mixture of 
truth. No doubt, there are, in all pulpits, many ap- 
peals, however inconsistent with the prevailing the- 
ology, to what men naturally know and feel of the 
rectitude and beauty of religion. But from this mass 
of teaching, I single out one element which, I say, is 
not accordant with truth ; which, I must say, is not 
only false, but fatal to all just appreciation of reli- 
gion. 

And does not the actual state of things show this to be 
the fact ? With what eyes are men, in fact, looking upon 
a religion which holds itself to be a mystic secret in the 
bosom of a few ? Do you not know that the entire litera- 
ture and philosophy of the age, are in a state of revolt 
against it? Our literature has its ideals of character, its 
images of virtue and worth ; it pourtrays the moral beauty 
that it admires ; but is there one trace of this mystic re« 
ligion in its delineations ? Our philosophy, our moral 
philosophy especially, whose very business it is to decide 
what is right, calmly treads this religion under foot — does 
not consider its claims at all. And the cultivators of lit- 
erature, of science and of art, with a multitude of thought- 
ful and intelligent men besides them — is it not a well-as- 
certained fact that they are remarkably indifferent to this 
kind of religion? Here and there ono has fallen in with 
it ; but the instance is rare. But if religion were pre- 
sented to them as a broad and rational principle, we might 
expect the reverse to be the fact. Thoughtful men — cul- 
tivators of literature and art, are the very men whose 
minds are most conversant with images of moral beauty. 
Show them that all true moral beauty, is a part of reli- 
gion ; tell them that a christian, in the true sense, is a 



25i 



ON THE IDENTITY OV 



man of principle, of truth and integrity, of kindness and 
modesty, of reverence and devotion to the Supreme Glory ; 
and they must feel that all this is interesting. But if re- 
ligion is some mysterious property ingrafted into the soul, 
differing altogether from all that men are wont to call 
rectitude and beauty, must not all intellect and taste and 
all moral enthusiasm and all social generosity and love, 
shrink from it ? In truth I wonder that they are so pa- 
tient as they are ; and nothing but indifference about the 
whole matter, can account for this patience. When the 
preacher rises in his pulpit and tells the congregation, 
that, excepting that grace which is found in a few, all their 
integrity and virtue, all their social love and gentleness, 
all their alms and prayers, have not in the sight of God, 
one particle of true goodness or worth ; nothing, I say> 
but profound apathy and unbelief can account for their 
listening to the sermon with any patience — with an in- 
stant's toleration of the crushing burthen of that doctrine^ 
Or suppose this doctrine embodied into a character, and 
then how does it appear ? Suppose one person in a fam- 
ily, possessing this mystic grace — in no other respect, that 
any body can see, better than the rest — no more amiable 
nor gentle nor disinterested, no more just nor forbearing 
nor loving — and suppose this person to take the position 
of being the only one in that family that is approved of 
God, to hold all the rest as reprobate, and doomed to de- 
struction — is it possible, I ask, to feel for that person in 
that character, any respect, or admiration or love ? Nay, 
I have known persons of the greatest defects of character 
and even of gross vices, to take this ground of superiority, 
in virtue of a certain inward grace which they conceive, 
has been applied to them. And I say not this for the sake 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



255 



of opprobrium ; but because this ground is, in fact, a legit- 
imate consequence of the doctrine that saving grace in 
the heart, is an entirely distinct and different thing from 
what men ordinarily call virtue and goodness. 

But further ; what is the state of feeling towards reli- 
gion among those who accept this doctrine 1 In those 
strong holds of theology or of church institution, where 
this doctrine is entrenched, where it is preserved as a 
treasure sacred from all profane invasion, or held as a 
bulwark against what are called the inroads of insidious 
error — in these places, I say, what is the feeling 1 If re- 
ligion is not any known or felt sentiment or affection of 
human nature to be cultivated, but is a spell that comes 
upon the heart of one and another, and nobody can tell 
how or when it will come, I can conceive that there may 
be much fear and anxiety about it ; but how there should 
be much true freedom or genuine and generous love, I 
cannot conceive. I do not profess to have any very in- 
timate acquaintance with the mind of such a congrega- 
tion ; but if religion does not press as an incubus upon 
the minds of many there ; if it is not a bugbear to the 
young, and a mystery to the thoughtful, and a dull, dead 
weight upon the hearts of the uninitiated ; if, in its vota- 
ries, it is not ever swaying between the extremes of death- 
like coldness and visionary rapture ; if it is not a little pent- 
up hope of salvation, rather than a generous and quick- 
ening principle of culture ; if the fire in the secret shrine, 
does not wither the gentle and lofty virtues ; I must con- 
fess that I understand nothing of the tendencies of human 
nature. There may be much religiousness in such a state 
of things ; but much of this has existed in many a state, 
Heathen, Mahometan, Catholic and Protestant too, with. 



256 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



out much of true religion. I do not say, that the churches 
consist generally of bad people ; many influences unite 
to form the character ; but I say that in so far as any 
churches hold their religion, to be some special grace im- 
planted in them, and different from all that other men feel 
of goodness and piety, so far their assumption tends di- 
rectly to make them neglect the cultivation of all true 
worth and nobleness of character. And I am not shaken 
in this position by the admission which I am willing to 
make, that there are probably more good men, in propor- 
tion, in the churches than out of them ; for profession it- 
self, the eye of the world upon them, and the use of certain 
ordinances, are powerful influences. They are powerful, 
and yet they are not the loftiest influences. They re- 
strain, more than they impel. And the very morality of 
an exclusive religion, is apt to wear features hard, stern, 
ungenial and unlovely. 

I have said in the opening of my first discourse, that the 
great mission cf the true teacher in this age is to establish 
the identity of religion and goodness. And the reason is, 
that by no other means can religion be really esteemed 
and loved. Feared it may be ; desired it may be ; but by 
no other means, I repeat, can it be truly and heartily es- 
teemed and loved. 

Now consider that religion stands before the world, with 
precisely this claim — the claim to be, above all other things 
reverenced and loved. Nay, it demands this love on pain 
of perdition for failure. Does the world respond to this 
claim? Does public sentiment anywhere yield to it? 
There are things that unite the moral suffrages of man- 
kind — honesty, integrity, disinterestedness, pity for the 
sorrowful, true love, true sanctity, self-sacrifice, martyrdom 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



257 



and among them and above them all, the character of 
Jesus Christ. Among these, does Calvinistic piety, hold 
anyplace? This is a fair and unexceptionable question 
in the sense in which I mean it. I am not speaking at all, 
of persons, I am speaking of an idea. Is the Calvinistic 
idea of piety — is it among the beautiful and venerable ideals 
and objects of the world's conscience — of the world's moral 
feeling? Surely not. But it will not do to say that this 
is because the world is so bad. For the character of our 
Saviour is among those objects ! Bad as the world is, 
yet all sects and classes and communities — all infidels and 
Mahometans and heathen, have agreed, without one single 
solitary whisper of contradiction, that this character is a 
perfect example of true, divine excellence! Does the 
Calvinistic ideal of religion draw to it, any such testimony? 
Then what clearer evidence can there be, that it is wrong? 

And if it be wrong ; if it is an error ; what terrible and 
awful mischiefs must follow in its train ! Mankind required, 
as the supreme duty, to love that which all their natural 
sentiments oblige them to dislike, and none of their natural 
powers, in fact, enable them to understand ! What peril 
must there be of their salvation in such a case ! what a 
calamitous state of things must it be for their highest hopes ! 
What confusion, what embroilment and distraction to all 
their moral convictions ! Nothing else can account for 
that blind wandering of many souls after the true good, 
which we see ; for that wild fanaticism, which has taken 
the place of sober and intelligent seeking ; for that dis- 
tracted running up and down, of men who know not what 
they are to get, nor how to get it, nor what, in any way, 
to do ; and yet more, for that profound and dreadful apathy 
of many, who have concluded that they can do nothing, 
22 



258 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



who have given up all thoughts of life as the voyage of 
the soul, and have resigned themselves to wait for some 
chance wave of excitement to bear them to the wished-for 
haven. 

Believe me, my friends, this is no abstract matter. It 
touches the vital ideas of human welfare. It concerns 
what is most practical, most momentous. In all congre- 
gations, in all townships and villages through the land, an 
ima^e is held up of religion — an idea of what is the su- 
preme excellence. It is regarded with doubt and fear and 
misgiving; not w T ith love, or enthusiasm, or admiration. 
It is not fair loveliness or beauty ; but a dark enigma. It 
is not the supreme excellence, but the supreme necessity. 
It is not intelligently sought, but blindly wished for. Alas! 
it is hard enough to get men to pursue the true excellence, 
when they are plainly told what it is. But here is a dread 
barrier on the very threshold, and they cannot proceed a 
single step. They can do nothing till they are converted ; 
they know not what it is to be converted ; and they wait 
for the initiative to come from heaven ; not knowing, alas ! 
that to be converted is, with heaven's help, to begin ; to 
take the first determined step and the second, and thus to 
go onward; to begin upon the ground of what they ac- 
tually know, and thus to go on to perfection. Religion — 
the beauty of the world — that which mingles as their 
pervading spirit with the glory of the heavens and the 
loveliness of nature — that which breathes in the affections 
of parents and children and in all the good affections of 
society — that which ascends in humble penitence and 
prayer to the throne of God — this is no mystic secret. 
It is to be good and kind, penitent and pure, temperate 
and self-denying, patient and prayerful; modest and 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



259 



generous and loving, as thou kuowest how to be — loving, 
in reverent thoughts of the good God, and in kind 
thoughts of all his children. It is plain — not easy — not 
in that sense natural ; but natural in its accordance with 
all the loftiest sentiments of thy nature — easy in this, 
that nothing ever sat with such perfect peace and calm 
upon thy soul as that will. It is so plain, that he who 
runs, may read. It is the way in which fools need not 
err. ** For what doth the Lord require of thee" — saith 
the prophet, indignant at the complaint of ignorance — 
" what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justice, 
and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God ?" 

Let me now proceed in the next place, from the esti- 
mate to the treatment of religion. The topics indeed 
are closely connected ; for the treatment of the subject 
will, of course, depend on the estimate formed of its 
character and merits. This consideration, it is evident, 
might carry us through the whole subject ; but I shall 
not, at present, touch upon the ground of religious cul- 
ture and religious earnestness, which I have reserved for 
separate discussion. In the remainder of this discourse, 
I shall confine myself to the treatment of religion ; as a 
matter of investigation, and of institution, and as a matter 
to be approached in practical seeking, The space that 
remains to me will oblige me to do this very briefly ; and 
indeed to touch upon one or two topics under these seve- 
ral heads, is all that I shall attempt. 

Under the head of investigation, the subjec t of religious 
controversy presents itself. 

Every one must be aware that religious controversy' is 
distinguished by certain remarkable traits, from all other 
controversy. There has generally been a severity, a 



260 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



bigotry, an exclusion and an obstinacy in it, not found 
in any other disputes. What has invested, with these 
strange and unseemly attributes, a subject of such tender, 
sublime and eternal interest 1 I conceive, that it is this 
— the idea that within the inmost bosom of religion, lies 
a secret — a something peculiar, distinct from all other 
qualities in the human character, and refusing to be judged 
of as other things are judged of — a secret wrapped about 
with the divine favor, and revealed only to a few. There 
is an unknown element in the case, and it is difficult to 
obtain a solution. The question is perplexed by it, as a 
question in chemistry would be, by the presence of some 
undetected substance. Or if the element is known to 
some, it is held to be unknown to others, and this as- 
sumption lays the amplest ground for bigotry and exclu- 
sion. If I know what religion is, and another man does 
not know, I am perfectly entitled, if I think proper, to 
reject his claim to it — to say that some defect of faith, 
or of ritual in him, forbids the possibility of his having it. 
Nothing is easier than on this basis, to form an exclusive 
sect ; it is, in fact, the legitimate and the only legitimate 
basis of such a sect. I say the only legitimate basis ; 
because, if every thing in this matter be fairly submitted 
to inquiry and decision — the vitality of religion as well as 
its creed and ritual ; if all men can, by care and study, 
know what it is ; if all men must know what it is, by the 
very law written on their hearts ; then it is absurd for 
one party to lay claim to the sole knowledge and posses- 
sion of it. Wrap it up in secrecy, and then, and then 
only, may you consistently wrap it up in exclusion. 

Only think of an exclusive party in science or art. 
Think of such a sect, saying to all others, " we only 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



261 



nave the true love of science or art ; we only have the 
true spirit of science or art;" and why would not their 
claim stand, for a moment ? Because all other men of 
learning and skill would say, "we are as competent to 
judge of this matter as you are. There is no secret in 
knowledge. There is no exclusive key to wisdom. 
There is no hidden way to art. Prove that there is, 
and then it may be that the mystery is in your posses- 
sion. But until you establish this point, your claim is 
absurd and insufferable, and not worth examination." 

Now the whole evil as well as the whole peculiarity 
of religious controversy, lies in this spirit of exclusion 
— in the assumption that opponents cannot be good 
men. Otherwise, controversy is a good thing. That 
is to say, honest and friendly discussion is good. The 
whole evil, I say, lies in the assumption of an exclusive 
knowledge of religion. Persecution proceeds upon no 
other ground. Men have been imprisoned, tortured, 
put to death, not merely because they erred, not sim- 
ply because they differed from their brethren, but be- 
cause that error, that difference, was supposed to in- 
volve the very salvation of the soul. Men have been 
punished, not as erroiists simply, but as men irreli- 
gious and bad, and as making others so. I speak now 
of honest persecution. Its object has been the salva- 
tion of souls. Its doctrine has been; * s painful as tor- 
ture is, it is better than perdition ; better fires on earth, 
than fires in hell." But the persecuted brethren say, 
" we are not irreligious and bad men. We wish the 
truest good to ourselves and others ; and though you 
oppose us, as you must, you ought not to hate, or tor- 
ture or vilify us ; we no more deserve it than you do." 
22* 



262 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



And what is the reply ? " You know nothing about the 
matter. You suppose yourselves to be good and true, 
and to have favor with God and a good hope of heaven ; 
but we know better ; we know what true religion is, 
and we say that you are totally devoid of it." And 
this judgment, I repeat, can fairly proceed upon no- 
thing but the notion that religion is a secret in the pos- 
session of the persecutors. 

Let it be otherwise, as surely it ought to be, if any 
thing ought ; let religion, the great sentiment, the great 
interest of humanity, be common ground, open and 
common to all ; let men take their stand upon it, and 
say, as they say in other differences of opinion, " we 
all wish the same thing ; we would all be happy, we 
would get to heaven ; what else can we wish ?" and do 
you not see how instantly religious disputes would 
take on a new character ; how gentle and charitable 
and patient and tolerant they would become? But 
now, alas ! the toleration of science, of art, nay, and 
of politics too, goes beyond the toleration of religion ! 
Men do not say to their literary or political opposers, 
" ye are haters of science or art ; ye hate the common 
country;" but in religion, they say: " ye are haters of 
God, and of good men, and of all that is truly good." 
Yes, the occasion for this tremendous exclusion, is 
found in religion — that which was ordained to be the 
bond of love, the bosom of confidence, the garner of 
souls into heaven ; the theme of all grandeur and of 
all tenderness ; the comforter of affliction, the loving 
nurse of all human virtues, the range of infinity, the 
reach to eternity, the example of the one meek and 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



263 



lowly ; the authority, at once, and the pity of the 
heavenly Father ! 

The next subject for the application of the point I 
am considering, is religious institutions. Under this 
head, I must content myself, with briefly pointing out 
a single example. The example is the ordinance of 
the Lord's Supper. The question I have to ask, is— - 
why do so many sober, conscientious and truly reli- 
gious persons, refrain from a participation in this lite? 
And the answer with many, is doubtless to be found 
in the notion, that religion involves some secret, or the 
experience of some secret grace — something different 
from moral uprightness and religious gratitude — with 
which they are not acquainted. I do not say that this 
account embraces every case of neglect, but I say that 
it embraces many. I will suppose a person, conscious 
of a sincere intent to be in all things, a true and good 
man, conscious too of religious affections, and desirous 
of cultivating them — one, believing in Christ, believing 
that his life and his death are the most powerful known 
ministration to human sanctity and blessedness ; one, 
also, truly disposed to impress the spirit of Christ upon 
his own heart and persuaded that the meditations of 
the Communion season, would be a help and comfort 
to him ; and why now I ask, shall he not avail himself 
of that appointed means? He is desirous of sacred 
culture. This is a means and he wishes to embrace it. 
Why does he not? I am sure that I may answer for 
him, that he would do so, if he felt that he were quali- 
fied. But this is the difficulty ; he is afraid that there 
is some qualification, unknown to him; and that he 



264 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



shall commit a sin of rashness and presumption if he 
comes to the sacred ordinance. 

My friends, it is all a mistake. You do know, in a 
greater or less measure, what christian virtue, what 
christian piety, is. You can know, whether you de- 
sire to cultivate this character. If you do, that very 
desire is the qualification. Means are for those who 
need them, not for those who need them not — for the 
imperfect, not for the perfect. The felt need of means, 
the sincere desire of means, is the qualification for 
them. If, being believers in Christianity, you also be- 
lieve that our Communion meditations would help 
you, you should as such come to them, as you come to 
the prayers of the Sanctuary. And you should as 
freely come. The Lord's Supper is a service no more 
sacred than the service of prayer. Nothing can be 
more solemn than solemn prayer. 

There is one more subject to be noticed under this 
head of treatment of religion — by far the most impor- 
tant of all — and that is religious seeking ; the seeking, 
in other words, to establish in one's self that charac- 
ter, on which God's approbation and all true good, all 
true happiness, depend, and will forever depend. Mo- 
mentous pursuit ! — that for which man was made, and 
life, with all its ordinances, was given, and the Gospel, 
with all its means of grace and manifestations of mercy, 
was published to the world — that in which every man 
should be more vitally and practically interested than 
in every other pursuit on earth. Every thing else may 
a man seek and gain ; the whole world may he gain, 
and after all lose this supreme interest. And yet to 
how many, alas ! will this very statement which I am 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



265 



making, appear technical, dry and uninteresting! — to 
how many more, irrelevant to them, foreign to their 
concerns, appropriate to other persons, but a matter 
with which they have nothing to do ! A kind of de- 
mure assent they may yield to the importance of reli- 
gion, but no vital faith ; nothing of that which carries 
them with such vigor and decision, to the pursuit of 
property, pleasure and fame. 

Now is there any difficulty in accounting for this 
deplorable condition of the general mind ? Make reli- 
gion a mystic secret, divest it of every attractive and 
holy charm, sever it from every thing that men already 
know and feel of goodness and love , tell them that 
they are totally depraved, totally destitute, totally 
ignorant ; and they may " wonder and perish ;" but can 
they rationally seek any thing? Men may be very de- 
praved, they may be extremely deficient of the right 
affections, as they doubtless are ; but if they saw the 
subject in the right light, they could not be indifferent. 
There could not be this heavy and benumbing cloud of 
apathy, spreading itself over the whole world. I have 
seen the most vicious men, intensely conscious, con- 
scious with mingled anger and despair, that the course 
of virtue is the only happy course. And do you preach 
to the most selfish and corrupt of men, in this wise, 
saying, " nothing but purity, gentleness, love, disinter- 
estedness, can make you happy — happy in yourself, in 
your family, or in society; and nothing but the love 
of God can make you happy amidst the strifes and 
griefs of this life and the solemn approaches to death ;" 
and they know that what you say is true ; they know 
that you are dealing with realities ; and they cannot be 



266 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



indifferent. They may be angry ; but anger is not in- 
difference. But now, do you speak to them in a differ- 
ent tone and manner, and say, " you must get religion ; 
you must experience the grace of God, in order to be 
happy," and immediately their interest will subside to 
that state of artificial acquiescence and real apathy, 
which now characterizes the mass of our christian 
communities. 

Nor is this, save for its extent, the most affecting view 
of the common mistake. There are real and anxious 
seekers. And how are they seeking? I have been 
pained to see such persons — often intelligent persons 
— blindly groping about as for the profoundest secret. 
They have no distinct idea of what it is the)^ want, 
what they are to obtain, what they are to do. All that 
they seem to know, is, that it is something to be 
wrought in their souls, and something on which their 
salvation depends. They go about from one meeting 
to another, from one master in Israel, or from one 
Revival preacher, or from one experienced person to 
another, and say, " tell us what this thing is, that is to 
be done in us ; how did you feel when you were con- 
verted ? — how was it! — how did the power of divine 
grace come upon you ? — what was the change in that 
very moment when you passed from death to life?" 
Well, to such, may the apostolic teaching speak in this 
wise, " say not who shall go up into heaven, that is to 
bring Christ down; or who shall go beyond the sea, 
to bring him near ? — for the word is nigh thee, in thy 
mouth and in thy heart, that thou shouldst do it." In 
your own heart, in the simplest convictions of right 
and wrong, are the teachings that you want. This, 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



267 



says the Apostle " is the word of salvation which we 
preach ; that if thou wilt believe in thy heart, and con- 
fess with thy tongue that Jesus is the Cnrist, thou 
shalt be saved." That is, if thou wilt have a loving 
faith in Jesus Christ as thy Guide, Example and Sav- 
iour and carry that faith into open action, and en- 
deavor to follow him, thou shalt be saved. In one 
word, if thou wilt be like Christ, if thou wilt imbibe 
his spirit and imitate his excellence, thou shalt be hap- 
py ; thou shall be blessed — blessed and happy forever. 
But the spirit, the loveliness of Christ, is no mystic 
secret. It is known and read of all men. It requires 
no mysterious initiation to instruct you in it. I do not 
object, of course, to seeking for light, or to seeking aid 
from men — from the wise and experienced ; but I do 
object to your seeking from them any initial or myste- 
rious knowledge of what religion is. Let you stand, 
alone, upon a desolate island, with the Gospel in your 
hands ; and then and there, do thou read that sacred 
page, and pray over it, and strive patiently to bring 
your heart into accordance with it — to bring what is 
already in you — your love and trust — up to conformity 
with it; and you are in the way of salvation. 

Oh ! sad and lamentable perversion — that the greatest 
good in the universe, the very end of our being, the very 
point of all sublime human attainment, the very object 
for which rational and spiritual faculties were given us, 
should be a mystery : that the very light by which we 
must walk, must be utter darkness, and that all we can do 
is, to put out our hand and grope about in that darkness ; 
that the very salvation, in which all the welfare of our 
souls is bound up, should be a dark enigma, and that all 



268 ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION, &C. 



we can do is to hope that we shall some time or other 
know what it is. No, says the Apostle, " the word is 
nigh thee, in thy mouth and in thy heart that thou shouldst 
do it ; that is the salvation which we preach." 



DISCOURSE XVII. 



ON THE IDENTITY OF RELIGION WITH GOODNESS, AND 
A GOOD LIFE. 



I JOHN IV. 20. If a man say, i love god, and hateth 

HIS BROTHER, HE IS A LIAR/ FOR HE THAT LOVETH NOT HIS 
BROTHER WHOM HE HATH SEEN, HOW CAN HE LOVE GOD WHOM 
HE HATH NOT SEEN 7 

From these words I propose to take up again the sub- 
ject of my last discourse. I have shown that saving vir- 
tue, or whatever it be that is to save men, is commonly 
regarded, not as the increase or strengthening of any 
principle that is already in them, but as the implantation 
in them of a principle entirely new and before unknown. 
I have endeavored to make this apparent, by a statement 
in several forms of the actual views that prevail of reli- 
gion and of obtaining religion. I have shown that with 
regard to religion or grace in the heart, the common feel- 
ing undoubtedly is, that it is a mystery — a thing which 
the people do not comprehend, and which they never ex- 
pect to comprehend but by the experience of regenera- 
tion. 

23 



270 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



I may now observe, in addition, that all this clearly fol- 
lows from the doctrine of total depravity. This doctrine 
asserts that in our natural humanity there is not one par- 
ticle of true religion or of saving virtue. Of course, hu- 
man nature knows nothing about it. The only way in 
which we can come at the knowledge of moral qualities, 
is by feeling them in ourselves. This is an unquestioned 
truth in philosophy. If we have no feeling of rectitude or 
of religion, we can have no knowledge of it. It follows 
therefore, from the doctrine of universal and total depra- 
vity, that to the mass of men, religion as an inward prin- 
ciple, must be a mystery, an enigma, a thing altogether 
incomprehensible. 

This position — held by many christians, but rejected 
by not a few, and presenting, in my opinion, the most 
momentous point of controversy in the christian wor]d — 
I have proposed to discuss with a freedom and seriousness 
proportioned to its immense importance. 

With this view I proposed to consider its bearings on 
the estimate and treatment of religion, the culture of reli- 
gion, and its essential vitality and power. 

The first of these subjects I have already examined, 
and I now proceed to the second. 

The next topic then, of which I was to speak, is reli- 
gious culture, or what is commonly called growth in grace. 
I cannot dwell much upon this subject ; but I must not 
pass it by entirely. 

A mystery, a mystic secret in the heart, cannot be cul- 
tivated. A peculiar emotion, unlike all well-known and 
clearly defined emotions of goodness or veneration, can- 
not be cultivated. It may be revived from time to time ; 
it may be kept alive in the heart by certain processes, and 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



271 



they are likely to be very mechanical processes ; the heart, 
like an electric jar, may ever and anon be charged anew 
with the secret power ; but to such an idea of religion, 
cultivation is a word that does, in no sense, properly ap- 
ply. To grow daily in kindness and gentleness, to be 
more and more true, honest, pure and conscientious, to 
cultivate a feeling of resignation to the Divine will and a 
sense of the Divine presence — all this is intelligible. But 
in proportion as the other idea of religion prevails, cul- 
ture is out of the question. And on this principle I am 
persuaded, you will find many to say, that the hour of their 
conversion, the hour when they received that secret and 
mysterious grace into their heart, was the brightest hour 
of their religious experience. Look then at the religious 
progress of such an one. I do not say that all converts 
are such ; but suppose any one to be possessed with this 
idea of religion as altogether an imparted grace ; and how 
naturally will his chief effort be, to keep that grace alive 
within him ! And where then is culture ? And what 
will be his progress ? Will he be found to have been 
growing more generous and gentle, more candid and 
modest, more disinterested and self-denying, more devoted 
to good works, and more filled with the good spirit of 
God 1 Will those who know him best, thus take know- 
ledge of him that he has been with Jesus, and say of him — 
he was very irascible and self-willed, twenty years ago ; 
but now he is very gentle and patient ; he was very self- 
ish, but now he is very generous and self-forgetting — very 
close and penurious, but now he is very liberal and char- 
itable — very restless and impatient, but now he is calm 
and seems to have a deep and immoveable foundation of 
happiness and peace — very proud and self-sufficient, but 



272 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



now it seems as if God and heaven were in all his thoughts, 
and were all his support and reason." I hope that this 
change of character does take place in some converts ; I 
would that it did in many ; but I must say, that in so far 
as a certain idea of conversion prevails — the idea of a 
new and mysterious grace infused into the soul — it is al- 
together unfavorable to such a progress. 

And yet so far has this idea infected all the religion of 
our times, that Christianity seems nowhere to be that 
school of vigorous improvement which it was designed to 
be. Religion, if it is nything befitting our nature, is 
the very sphere of progress. All its means, ordinances 
and institutions have this in view, as their very end. But 
surely it is very obvious and very lamentable to observe, 
how much religious observance and effort there is, which 
goes entirely to waste — which does not advance the char- 
acter at all. Think of our churches, our preaching, our 
Sabbaths — how little do they avail to make us better ! 
How little do they seem to be thought of as seasons, 
means, schools of improvement ! Must we not suspect that 
there is some error at the bottom of all this ? And now 
suppose that men have got the notion that that something 
which is to prepare them for heaven is something entirely 
different from charity, honesty, disinterestedness, truth, 
self-government and the kindly love of one another, would 
not this be the very notion, to work that fatal mischief — 
the very notion to disarm conscience and rational con- 
vertion of all their power. 

You will recollect that sometime since, a national ship 
belonging to the Imaum of Muscat, visited our shores. 
Its officers, who I believe were intelligent men, freely 
mingled with our citizens, and saw something of society 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 273 

among us. And what do you think was their testimony- 
concerning us ? On the point now before us, it was this. 
They said that there is no religion among us. And what 
now, you will ask, was their own idea of religion ? I an- 
swere, it was analagous to the very idea which I am con- 
troverting in this discourse. Religion with them was not 
the general improvement of the character— nothing of 
the kind ; but a certain strictness, a certain devoutness, 
a particular way of attending to religion. Wherever 
these persons were found — at whatever feast or entertain- 
ment provided for them — when the hour of prayer, pre- 
scribed for Mussulmens, arrived, they courteously desired 
leave to retire to some private apartment, to engage in 
the prescribed devotions. They found not these things 
among us, and they said, " there is no religion in Ame- 
rica." Bat do you believe that these Arabian followers 
of the prophet, were better men than the christian people 
upon whom they passed this judgment? No ; you say — 
without denying their sincerity — that they had wrapped 
up all religion in certain peculiarities ; and you deny, 
and very justly deny, that this view of religion is either 
just, or useful. You say, on the contrary, that it is very 
dangerous ; that it is unfriendly to the true improvement 
of the character ; that according to this way of thinking, 
a man may be a very good Mussulman and a very bad 
man. And this is precisely what I say of that idea of 
religion among ourselves which wraps it up in peculiarity ; 
which finds its essence in certain beliefs or in certain ex- 
periences, that are quite severed from general goodness 
and virtue. And I say, too, that according to this theory, 
a man may be a very good christian and yet a very bad 
man — ma y consider himself pious, when he is not even a 
23* 



274 



ON THE IDENTITY OP 



humane man — not generous, nor just, nor candid nor 
modest, nor forbearing nor kind ; in short that he may- 
be a man on whom falls that condemnation which the 
Apostle pronounces on him who says, " I love God, and 
hateth his brother." 

But now it may be said, that the doctrine which I have 
delivered, is a very dangerous doctrine. " To tell a 
man," it may be said, "that there is some good in him on 
which he is to build ; that religion consists essentially in 
the culture of what is already within him ; that there are 
natural emotions of piety and goodness in him which he 
is to cultivate into a habit and a character ; will not all 
this minister to self-complacency, sloth, negligence and 
procrastination V 9 Will not the man say — 44 well, I have 
some good in me, and I only need a little more, and I can 
attend to that, any time. I need not trouble myself ; 
events perhaps will improve my character ; and all will 
be well, without much effort or concern on my part. 
And especially, I need not go through this dreadful parox- 
ism of a conversion ; I have nothing to do but to im- 
prove." 

I might answer that it is no new thing, for a good and 
true doctrine to be abused. I do not know but it is abused 
by some among us. Indeed I fear that it is. Let me 
proceed, at once then, to guard against this abuse ; and 
to show, as I have proposed, that the doctrine which I 
advocate is one of essential vitality and power in religion. 

Let us illustrate this by one or two comparisons. You 
wish to teach some man a science. Would you think it 
likely to awaken his zeal and earnestness, to begin by 
telling him, not only that he knows nothing about the 
science in question, but that he has no natural capacity for 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



275 



understanding it ; that he has no elements in him of that 
knowledge in which you wish to instruct him ; but that 
he must first have some special and supernatural initia- 
tion from heaven into that knowledge, and then he may 
advance ; that till this is done, nothing is done, and that 
when this is done, all is done — all, that is to say, that is 
essential to his character as a man of science — all that is 
necessary to prepare him for a successful examination ? 
Would ii further your object to instruct him in this way? 
You wish to teach music to your pupil. You wish to 
arouse him to attend, and to labor for accomplishment. 
Would it be well, to tell him lhat he has no musical ear, 
and that he can do nothing till this is given him? You 
desire to train a youth to high physical accomplishment, 
to the exercises of the gymnasium or the riding-school, 
to feats of strength or agility : a branch of education that 
deserves more attention than it is receiving among us. 
Would you avow to your pupil, that there is one prelimi- 
nary step to be gained before you could proceed at all ; 
that he had no muscles, no aptitude ; and that, until these 
are given him, he can do nothing. Alas ! when 1 look 
at the wonderful feats of some public performers — magi- 
cians as they are called, and as they seem to the people — 
and when I know that all this is the result of careful and 
patient training, I cannot help saying, would christians 
exercise themselves in this way, to what might they not 
attain? " And these doit," says the Apostle, "for an 
earthly crown, but ye labor for a heavenly." Alas ! — I am 
compelled to say again — every school of learning, seems 
to be more successful than the christian school ! And 
why ? — let me ask. Have not all other schools their diffi- 
culties to surmount as well as the christian ? Why then 



276 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



is it that this is so lame and inefficient, but because there 
is some radical error at the very foundation ? Let us see 
christians laboring, ay and denying themselves, as men 
of science and art and skill do, and should we not witness 
some new result ? 

So I contend they would labor, or at the least, would 
be far more likely to labor, if they were put in the 
right way and were impressed with the right convic- 
tions. What is the way? What are the convictions? 
What does our doctrine say to men 1 What does it say 
to them with regard to conversion — to progress — and 
to preparation for heaven ? 

With regard to conversion, it says, " you must begin 
the work of self-culture ; resolutely and decidedly you 
must enter upon the christian path. If that era of so- 
lemn determination has never come to you, then it 
must come, or you are a lost man. With a feeling as 
solemn, as profound, as absorbing, as ever possessed 
the heart of any convert to mysterious grace, you must 
begin. He may think that the saving work is done 
upon him in an instant ; you must not think so. That 
is all an error proceeding from a false interpretation of 
certain figurative language of Scripture ; such as "new 
birth," " new creation" — figurative phrases which ap- 
ply to the soul, only so far as the soul's nature will 
admit ; and it does not admit of an instant's experience 
being the preparation for heaven. He who has re- 
ceived this instantaneous communication, may think 
that in that moment he has got a grace, a something — 
a something like a pass-word to heaven ; but you, if 
you will have any reason in your religion, must not 
think so. If you think at all, you cannot think so. If 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 277 

you imagine, you may imagine what you will. And 
truly, it is no moderate stretch of imagination that is 
is here supposed. For if an instant's experience is 
enough to prepare the soul for heaven, I must wonder 
why a life was given for it. No, in one moment we 
can only begin. But that beginning must nevertheless 
be made. What is never begun, is never done. On 
that great resolve, rests the burden of all human hope. 
On that great bond is set the seal of eternity. If we 
have never made that bond with our souls to be true 
and pure ; if we have never taken up that resolve, I 
see not how we can be christians. If all our impulses 
were good we might yield ourselves up to them. If 
there were no temptations, we should need no pur- 
pose. If there were a tide in the ocean of life that set 
right towards the desired haven, ve might cast our- 
selves upon it and let it bear us at its will. But what 
would you expect, if a ship were loosened from yonder 
wharf, and without any course set, or any purpose to 
make a voyage, it were to take such fate as the winds 
and waves might send it? You know what its fate 
would be; to founder amidst the seas or to be wrecked 
on the shore ; it would reach no haven. And so upon 
the great deep of life, a moral voyage is to be made ; 
amidst winds and waves of passion, arid through clouds 
and storms of temptation and difficulty, the course 
must be held ; and it will not be held, if it is not firmly 
set. Certainly, no man will make the voyage, unless 
he is determined to make it. How many launch forth 
upon the ocean of life without any such determination ; 
and their ship is swayed this way and that way, by 
unseen currents, and is carried far astray by smooth 



278 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



tides and softly-breathing winds ; but surely, unless a 
time comes, when the thoughtless mariner arouses 
himself, and directs his course and spreads his sails for 
the haven, he will never reach it ! 

I must lay this emphatic stress upon beginning ; and 
I would that it might be a point of personal inquiry. 
I will use no intrusive liberty with your thoughts ; but 
I would say, have you begun ? — have you resolved ! — 
for there is nothing on earth so much requiring a re- 
solve. Let not this matter then, be wrapped in mys- 
tery. In clear reality, let it stand before us ; in close 
contact, let it come to us. There is something wrong, 
of which the soul is conscious. The resolve required 
is this — to do it no more. There is some secret indul- 
gence, some bosom sin. The resolve is, to tear that 
sin from the bosom, though it be dear as a right hand 
or a right eye. Some duty, or course of duties, is 
neglected : the resolve is to set about it, this day, this 
hour. In short, the resolve is, a great, strong, sub- 
stantial purpose to do right in all things ; it is to set 
up the standard of duty as that beneath which we will 
walk all our life through ; to give our hearts without 
any reserve to God, to truth and sanctity and good- 
ness. 

This is what our doctrine says in regard to conver- 
sion. And now what does it say, on the subject of 
progress? Does the message which it delivers, minis- 
ter to sloth, negligence, or procrastination ? What 
does it say? Your life's work is growth in goodness 
and piety. It is a daily work, or, it is no work at all. 
Every day, you must advance. Practical religion is 
self-culture. God has given you a natural piety, and 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



279 



a natural benevolence, as he has given you a natural 
reason. With one as with the other, your business is 
culture. The seed is in you, as the seed of the com- 
ing harvest is in the soil. Every thing depends on cul- 
ture. Does it discourage the industry of the husband- 
man to tell him that the seed is provided, and planted 
in the earth ? — that there is a germ that will grow if he 
will take care of it? Nay, that is the very reason why 
he will work. Or does he refuse to work, because it 
is necessary that God's sun and air quicken the soil? 
And why any more that God's spirit must shine and 
breathe upon his soul? 

In this rational and generous self-culture, is the se- 
cret of spiritual strength. There is nothing which 
most men so much feel as the want of vitality and earn- 
estness in their religion. Their talk about it is dull 
and mournful ; their prayers are cold and reluctant ; 
their interest is languid, their Sabbaths and their reli- 
gious meetings in conference-rooms and school-houses, 
are heavy and sluggish! — And why is all this? Be- 
cause — provided they are sincere — because their views 
of religion are irrational, mystical, essentially uninter- 
esting : because the thing in question, is severed from 
the living fountains of all true emotion. Let me 
state it to you thus. You have a friend — a dear and 
lovely friend ; and towards that being your affections 
are not dull and sluggish. But why is that friend dear 
and lovely? Because generous and noble-hearted, kind 
and gentle, full of disinterestedness and purity and 
truth? Then I tell you that your friendship is a part 
of religion. It is of the same nature as religion. It 
is no other than a portion o the beauty of the Divinity 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



that is shed forth in the heart of your friend. Again, 
you have an enthusiasm for all that is morally sublime 
and beautiful. The patriot that dies for his country » 
the martyr that calmly goes to the stake, when one 
word, one little word uttered, will give him life and 
fortune, and splendor, and he will not speak that false 
word ; the patient and heroic sufferer amidst pain and 
calamity ; the great sufferer when he breathed the 
prayer, Father forgive them — these, win admiration, 
draw tears from you perhaps, as you think of them. 
And again, I tell you that this is a part of religion. 
Once more you have an interest in this matter. Surely 
you would be happy. Uneasiness, destitution, self- 
inflicted pain are hard things to bear. But was ever a 
soul — full of the love of God, full of kindness and gen- 
tleness, full of serenity and trust — was ever such a soul 
essentially unhappy ? How then can fainting and fam- 
ishing creatures, gather in converse around this foun- 
tain of all healing and comfort, and not be thrilled with 
inexpressible emotion? Let me suggest one more 
thought. There is one great Being who is the first 
and chiefest object of religion — God ! And God is 
every where. Can there be indifference where it is felt 
that God is. And he is every where. In thy crowded 
meeting, in thy lonely and retired walk, in the ever 
lovely, holy and beautiful nature that is spread around 
you, in the silent and star-lit dome of heaven, and be- 
neath your humble roof, in all that fills it with comfort 
and joy and hope, ay, or touches it with disciplinary 
sorrow — in all, God is : the nearest, the holiest ; the 
greatest, the kindest of beings ; and can indifference 
live in that sublime and blessed presence ? 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



281 



Now what is religion ? It is not merely to feel all 
this, at certain times and seasons, but it is to make it 
the reigning habit of our minds. To feel it, is com- 
paratively easy ; to form it into the very structure of 
our souls, is quite another thing. I cannot very well 
understand how any man should want the feeling ; but 
I can very well understand, how he should want the 
character. For this it is precisely, that is the greatest 
and rarest of all human attainments. This it is, to have 
Christ formed within us, the hope of glory. Jesus, the 
blessed Master, lived that perfect life. In him each 
good affection of the great humanity, had its fullness, 
its permanence, its perfection. How reverend, how 
holy, how dear, how soul-entrancing, is that incarnate 
loveliness — God in him, God with us ; the brightness 
of the Father's glory and the express image of his per- 
son ! Oh ! could we be like him ! all our ungoverned 
agitations, all our vain longings, all our distracting pas- 
sions, all our needless griefs and pains, would die away 
from us ; and we should be freed from the heavy, 
heavy burden of our sins ! I almost fear, my friends, 
so to express myself ; lest it should be construed into 
the hackneyed and whining lamentation of the pulpit, 
and should win no respect, no sympathy with you. 
No, it is with a manly grief, with an indignant sorrow 
and shame, that every one of us should lament, that he 
has not more unreservedly followed the great and glo- 
rious Master ! 

And let me add that this is no visionary nor imprac- 
ticable undertaking. It is what we all can do, with God's 
help, if we will. It is what is bound upon us, by the sim- 
plest perceptions of rectitude in our own souls — bound 
24 



ON THE IDENTITY OF 



upon us by the very feelings of conscience and obligation 
which God has implanted within us. 

Finally, it is what we must do, if we would attain to 
happiness here or hereafter. The hours are stealing on, 
when the veil of eternity shall part its awful folds, and the 
great and dread hereafter shall receive us. Solemn will 
be that hour ! Lightly do we hear of its daily coming to 
one and another around us now ; little do we think of 
what it was to them ; but so will not be its coming — with 
lightness or with little thought — so will not be its coming 
to us. The gathering and swelling thoughts of that hour 
— no one can know but he who has felt it drawing nigh. 
Earth recedes ; and earth's ambition, gain, pleasure, vanity, 
shrinks to nothing ; and one thought spreads all around 
and fills the expanding horizon of eternity — am I ready 1 
— have I lived so, as to meet this hour? And believe 
me, in no court of human theology, must that question 
be answered. No imaginary robe of another's righteous- 
ness. — I speak not now of God's mercy in Christ ; that, 
we may be sure, will be all that mercy consistently can 
be — no mystic grace claiming superiority to all deeds 
of mercy and truth, no narrow, technical hope of salva 
tion garnered up in the heart, will avail us there ; but the 
all-deciding question will be — what were we 1 and what 
have we done ? What were we, in the whole breadth 
and length of all our good or all our bad affections ? 
That awful question we must answer for ourselves. No 
one shall be there to answer for us. No answer shall 
be given in there, but that which comes from every day 
and hour of our lives. For there is not a day nor an hour 
of our lives, but it contributes to make us better or worse ; 
it has borne the stamp of our culture or carelessness, of 



RELIGION WITH GOODNESS. 



283 



ourfidelity or our neglect. And that stamp, which our 
life's experience sets upon our character, is — I speak not 
my own word, but God's word — that stamp is the very 
seal of retribution. 

Does this seem, my friends, but a sad and stern con- 
clusion of the matter ; not encouraging to our hopes, nor 
accordant with the mercy of the Gospel ? The Gospel 1 
Is it a system of evasions and subterfuges and palliatives, 
to ease off the strict demand of holiness ? No, let theol- 
ogy boast of such devices, and tell men that as they have 
sowed so shall they not reap ; but believe me, the Gos- 
pel is the last thing to break the everlasting bond that 
connects happiness with goodness, with purity. And 
who would have it otherwise 1 Who would be happy, 
but on condition of being good, and in proportion as he 
is good? What true man asks, that over his corrupt and 
guilty heart, while such, may be poured a flood of perfect 
bliss ? Our nature may be fallen and low ; but that 
flood would sweep away the last vestige of all its honor 
and worth. God never created a thing so vile as that 
would be. No, it is a noble being that he has given us, 
though alas ! it be marred and degraded ; and upon the 
eternal laws of that being, must we build up our welfare. 
It is a glorious privelege so to do ; to do what the noble 
Apostle spoke of as his own law and hope, when he said, 
— and be assured, that must be our law and hope — "I 
have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I 
have kept the faith ; henceforth there is laid up for me> 
a crown which the Lord, the righteous Judge will give me 
in that day ; and not to me only but to all who love his 
appearing." 



DISCOURSE XVIII. 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



JOB XXill. 3, 4 and 5 vs. Oh! that i knew where i 

MIGHT FIND HIM ; THAT I MIGHT COME EVEN TO HIS SEAT ! 
I WOULD ORDER MY CAUSE BEFORE HIM, AND FILL MY MOUTH 
WITH ARGUMENTS. I WOULD KNOW THE WORDS WHICH HE 
WOULD ANSWER ME, AND UNDERSTAND WHAT HE WOULD SAY 
TO ME. 

It is striking to observe, how large a part of the book 
of Job, and especially of Job's own meditation, is occu- 
pied with a consideration of the nature and character of 
the Supreme Being. The subject-matter of the book, is 
human calamity. The point proposed for solution, is the 
interpretation of that calamity. The immediate question 
— of very little interest now, perhaps, but one of urgent 
difficulty in a darker age — is, whether calamity is retri- 
butive ; whether, in proportion as a man is afflicted, he 
is to be accounted a bad man. Job contends against this 
principle, and the controversy with his friends turns upon 
this point. But as I have already remarked, it is striking 
to observe how often his mind rises apparently quite above 
the controversy, to a sublime meditation on God. As if 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 285 

feeling, that provided he could fix his trust there, he should 
be strong and triumphant, thither he continually resorts. 
With these loftier soarings, are mingled, it is true, pas- 
sionate complaint and sad despondency and bitter re- 
proaches against his friends, and painful questionings 
about the whole order of providence. It is indeed a 
touching picture of a mind in distress — with its sad flue" 
tuations ; its words of grief and haste bursting into the 
midst of its words of prayer ; its soarings and sinkings ; 
its passionate and familiar adjurations of heaven and earth 
to help it— and with the world of dark and undefined 
thoughts, which roll through it like waves of chaos : in 
short, it is a picture, whose truth can be realized only by 
experience. 

But I was about to observe that this tendency of Job's 
mind to the Supreme, though it may seem to carry him, 
at times, up quite out of sight of the question in hand, is 
really a natural tendency, and that it naturally sprung 
from the circumstances in which he was placed. The 
human condition is, throughout, allied to a divine power ; 
and the strong feeling of what this condition is, always 
leads us to that Power. The positive good and evil of 
this condition, therefore, have especially this tendency. 
This is implied in the proem or preface of the book of 
Job ; which gives an account after the dramatic manner 
which characterizes the whole book, of the circumstances 
that lead to Job's trial. After a brief prefatory statement 
informing the reader who Job was, and what were his 
possessions, the scene is represented as opening in heaven. 
Among the sons of God, Satan presents himself — the 
Accuser, the Adversary. And when Job's virtue is the 
theme of commendation, the Accuser says, " doth Job 
24* 



286 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY 



fear God for naught ? — a grand Emir of the East — cra- 
dled in luxury — loaded with the benefits of heaven — doth 
he fear God for naught? Put forth thine hand now, and 
touch all that he hath and he will curse thee to thy face !" 
It is done ; and Job is stripped of his possessions, ser- 
vants, children — all. And Job falls down upon the ground 
and worships ; and says, " the Lord gave, the Lord hath 
taken away ; blessed be the name of the Lord." 

But again the Accuser says — thou hast not laid thine 
hand yet upon his person. Come yet nearer ; " put forth 
thine hand now and touch his bone and his flesh, and he 
will curse thee to thy face." Again it is done ; and Job 
is smitten and overwhelmed with disease; and he sits 
down in ashes and scrapes himself with a potsherd — a 
pitiable and loathsome object. The faith of his wife too, 
gives way — of her who, above all, should have supported 
him then ; but who, from the reverence and love which 
she felt for her husband, is least able to bear the sight of 
his misery. She cannot bear it : and partaking of the 
prevalent feelings of the age about outward prosperity, as 
the very measure and test of the Divine favor, she says, 
" dost thou still retain thine integrity ? Curse God and 
die !" " Give up the strife ; you have been a good man ; 
you have helped and comforted many ; and now you are 
reduced to this. Give up the strife ; curse God and die !" 
And Job answered, " thou speakest as one of the foolish 
women speaketh !" What nature ! We seem to hear 
that fireside conversation. What nature ! and what deli- 
cacy, mingled with reproof! " Thou speakest not as my 
wife, but as one of the foolish, prating women speaketh. 
What ! shall we receive good at the hand of the Lord, 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



287 



and shall we not receive evil ? In all this did not Job sin 
with his lips." 

Then the three friends of Job came to him ; and it is 
a beautiful trait of delicacy for those ancient times, that 
these friends, according to the representation, " sat down 
upon the ground with him seven days and seven nights, 
and spake not a word unto him; for they saw that his grief 
was great." When we recollect that all over the East, 
loud wailings and lamentations were the usual modes of 
testifying sympathy, we are lead to ask, whence came 
— whence, but from inspiration — this finer conception, 
befitting the utmost culture and delicacy of later times ? 
" Seven days and seven nights they sat with him, and none 
of them spake a word to him." Of course, we are not 
to take this too literally. According to the Hebrew cus- 
tom, they mourned with him seven days : that is, they 
were in his house, and they came, doubtless, and sat with 
him from time to time ; but they entered into no large 
discourse with him ; they saw that it was not the time 
for many words ; they mourned in silence. 

This I have said is a beautiful conception of what be- 
longs to the most delicate and touching sympathy. There 
comes a time to speak, and so the friends of Job judged ; 
though their speech proved less delicate and judicious 
than their silence. There comes a time to speak ; there 
are circumstances which may make it desirable ; there are 
easy and unforced modes of address which may make it 
grateful ; there are cases where a thoughtful man may 
help his neighbor with his wisdom, or an affectionate man 
may comfort him, with sympathy ; " a word fitly spoken," 
says the sacred proverbialist, " is like apples of gold in 
pictures of silver." 



288 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY 



And yet after all, it seems to me that words can go but 
a little way, into the depths of affliction. The thoughts 
that struggle there in silence ; that go out into the silence 
of infinitude — into the silence of eternity — have no em- 
blems. Thoughts enough, God knoweth, come there — 
such as no tongue ever uttered. And those thoughts do 
not so much want human sympathy, as they want higher 
help. I deny not the sweetness of that balm ; but I say 
that something higher is wanted. The sympathy of all 
good friends, too, we know that we have, without a word 
spoken. And moreover, the sympathy of all the world, 
though grateful, would not lighten the load, one feather's 
weight. Something else the mind wants — something to 
rest upon. There is a loneliness in deep sorrow, to which 
God only can draw near. Its prayer is emphatically 
"the prayer of a lonely heart." Alone, the mind is 
wrestling with the great problem of calamity, and the so- 
lution, it asks from the infinite providence of heaven. Did 
I not rightly say, then, that calamity directly leads us to 
God ; and that the tendency, so apparent in the mind of 
Job, to lift itself up to that exalted theme of contempla- 
tion, was natural ? And it is natural too, that the one 
book of affliction, given us in the holy record — the one 
book wholly devoted to that subject— ^-is, throughout, and 
almost entirely, a meditation on God. 

I wish to speak, in the present season of meditation, of 
this tendency of the mind, amidst the trials and distresses 
of life, to things superior to itself, and especially to the 
Supreme Being. It is not affliction of which I am to 
speak, but of that to which it leads. My theme is, the 
natural aspiration of humanity to things above and be- 
yond it, and the revealings from above to that aspiration ; 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



289 



it is in other words, the call of humanity and the answer 
to it. " I would order my cause before him," says Job, 
" I would know the words he would answer me." 

There are many things in us, of which we are not dis- 
tinctly conscious ; and it is one office of every great min- 
istration to human nature, whether its vehicle be the pen, 
the pencil or the tongue, to waken that slumbering con- 
sciousness into life. And so do I think, that it is one of- 
fice of the pulpit. That inmost consciousness — were it 
called forth from the dim cells in the soul, where it sleeps 
— how instantly would it turn to a waking and spiritual 
reality, that life, which is now to many, a state so dull and 
worldly, so uninteresting and unprofitable ! 

How it should be such to any, seems to me, I confess, 
a thing almost inconceiveable. It may be because my 
life is, as I may say, professionally, a meditation upon 
themes of the most spiritual and quickening interest. 
Certainly, I do not lay any claim to superior purity, for 
seeming to myself to see things as they are. But surely t 
this life, instead of being anything negative or indifferent, 
instead of being anything dull and trivial, seems to me I 
was ready to say, as if it were bound up, with mystery, 
and agony, and rapture. Yes, rapture as well as agony — 
the rapture of love, of reciprocated affection, of hope, of 
joy, of prayer — and the agony of pain, of loss, of bereave- 
ment — and over all their strugglings, the dark cloud of 
mystery. If any one is unconscious of the intensity and 
awfulness of this life within him, I believe it is because 
he does not know what he is all the while feeling. Health 
and sickness, joy and sorrow, success and disappointment^ 
life and death, are familiar words upon his lips, and he 
does not know to what depths they point within him. It 



290 



THE CA.LL OF HUMANITY 



is just as a man may live unconscious that there is any- 
thing unusual about him, in this age of unprecedented ex- 
citement — in this very crisis of the world's story. 

Indeed a man seems never to know what any thing 
means, till he has lost it ; and this, I suppose, is. the 
reason, why losses — vanishings away of things — are 
among the teachings of this world of shadows. The 
substance indeed teacheth ; but the vacuity whence it 
has disapeared, yet more. Many an organ, many a 
nerve and fibre in our bodily frame, performs its silent 
part for years, and leaves us almost or quite uncon- 
scious of its value. But let there be the smallest in- 
jury, the slightest cut of a knife, which touches that 
organ or severs the fibre ; and then we find, though it 
be the point of our finger, that we want it continually ; 
then we discover its value ; then we learn, that the 
fine and invisible nerves that spread themselves all 
over this wonderful frame, are a significant hand-wri- 
ting of divine wisdom. And thus it is, with the uni- 
versal frame of things in life. One would think that 
the blessings of this world were sufficiently valued ; 
but after all, the full significancy of those words, pro- 
perty, ease, health — the wealth of meaning that lies in 
the fond epithets, parent, child, friend — we never know 
till they are taken away ; till in place of the bright, 
visible being, comes the awful and desolate shadow 
where nothing is — where we stretch out our hands in 
vain, and strain our eyes upon dark and dismal vacuity. 
Still, in that vacuity we do not lose the object that we 
loved ; it only becomes more real to us. Thus do 
blessings not only brighten when they depart, but 
are fixed in enduring reality ; and friendship itself, re 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



291 



ceives its everlasting seal, beneath the cold impress of 
death. 

I have said thus much for the sake of illustration — 
of suggestion — to show you that the imprint of things 
may be upon us, which we scarcely know; to intimate 
to you — what I believe — that a dim consciousness of 
infinite mystery and grandeur, lies beneath all this 
common place of life ; yes, and to arouse even the 
most irreligious worldliness, by the awfulness and ma- 
jesty that are around it. As I have seen a rude peas- 
ant from the Appenines, falling asleep at the foot of a 
pillar in one of the majestic Roman Churches ; doubt- 
less the choral symphonies yet fell soft upon his ear, 
and the gilded arches were yet dimly seen through the 
half-slumbering eye-lids ; so, I think, it is often, with 
the repose and the very stupor of worldliness. It can- 
not quite lose the sense of where it is, and of what is 
above and around it. 

The scene of its actual engagements may be small ; 
the paths of its steps, beaten and familiar ; the objects 
it handles, easily spanned, and quite worn out with 
daily uses. So it may be, and amidst such things, that 
we all live. So we live our little life; but heaven is 
above us ; and eternity is before us, and behind us ; 
and suns and stars are silent witnesses and watchers 
over us. Not to speak fancifully, of what is matter of 
fact — do you not always feel that you are enfolded by 
infinity? — infinite powers, infinite spaces — do they not 
lie all around you ? Is not the dread arch of mystery, 
spread over you — and no voice ever pierced it ? Is not 
eternity enthroned amidst yonder starry heights — and 
no utterance, no word ever came from those far-lying 



292 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY 



and silent spaces ? Oh ! it is strange — to think of that 
awful majesty above, and then to think of what is be- 
neath it ; this little struggle of life — this poor day's 
conflict — this busy ant-hill of a city. Shut down the 
dome of heaven close upon it; let it crush and confine 
every thought to the present spot, to the present in- 
stant ; and such would a city be. But now, how is it ? 
Ascend the lonely watch-tower of evening meditation, 
and look forth and listen ; and lo ! the talk of the 
streets, the sounds of music and revelling, the stir and 
tread of a multitude, goeth up into the silent and all 
surrounding infinitude ! 

But is it the audible sound only, that goeth up ? Oh ! 
no ; but amidst the stir and noise of visible life — from 
the inmost bosom of the visible man, there goeth up a 
call, a cry, an asking, unuttered, unutterable — an ask- 
ing for revelation — saying in almost speechless agony 
— "Oh! break, dread arch of mystery! — tell us, ye 
stars, that roll above the waves of mortal trouble — 
speak ! enthroned majesty of those awful heights — 
bow down your mysterious and reserved heavens and 
come near — tell us, what ye only know— tell us of the 
loved and lost — -tell us what we are, and whither we 
are going ! 

Is not man such an one ? Is he not encompassed 
with a dome of incomprehensible wonders ? Is there 
not that, in him and about him ; which should fill his 
life with majesty and sacredness? Is there not some- 
thing of sublimity and sacredness thus borne down 
from heaven, into the heart of every man ? Where is 
the being so base and abandoned but he hath some 
traits of that sacredness left upon him — something so 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



293 



much in discordance perhaps with his general repute, 
that he hides it from all around him — some sanctuary 
in his soul, where no one may enter ; some sacred en- 
closure — where the memory of a child is, or the image 
of a venerated parent, or the echo of some sweet word 
of kindness that was once spoken to him — an echo, 
that shall never die away I 

Would man awake to the higher and better things 
that are in him, he would no longer feel, I repeat, 
that life to him is a negative, or superficial, or worldly 
existence. Evermore are his steps haunted with 
thoughts, far beyond their own range — which some 
have regarded, as the reminiscences of a pre-existent 
state. As a man who passeth a season in the sad and 
pleasant land of Italy, feels a majestic presence of sub- 
lime ages and histories with him, which, he does not 
always distinctly recognize, but which lend an inde- 
scribable interest to every field, and mountain and 
mouldering wall, and make life to be, all the while, 
more than mere life ; so it is with us all, in the beaten 
and worn track of this worldly pilgrimage. There is 
more here, than the world we live in ; it is not all of 
life to live. An unseen and infinite presence is here ; 
a sense of something greater than we possess ; a seek- 
ing, through all the void waste of life, for a good 
beyond it ; a crying out of the heart for interpre- 
tation ; a memory of the dead, which touches, ever 
and anon, some vibrating thread in this great tissue of 
mystery. 

I cannot help thinking, that we all, not only have 
better intimations, but are capable of better things than 
we know ; that the pressure of some great emergency 
25 



294 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY 



would develope in us, powers, beyond the worldly bias 
of our spirits ; and that, so heaven dealeth with us, 
from time to time, as to call forth those better things. 
Perhaps there is not a family so selfish in the world, 
but that if one in it were doomed to die — if tyranny 
demanded a victim, it would be utterly impossible for 
its members — parents and children — to choose out that 
victim ; but that all and each one would say, " I will 
die, but I cannot choose." Nay, in how many families — 
if that dire extremity had come — would one and another 
step forth, freed from the vile meshes of ordinary self- 
ishness, and say, like the Roman father and son, " let 
the blow fall on me !" There are greater and better 
things in us all, than the world takes account of, or 
than we take note of, would we find them out. And 
it is one part of our spiritual culture to find these 
traits of greatness and power, to revive these faded 
impressions of generosity and goodness — the almost 
squandered bequests of God's love and kindness to 
our souls, — and to yield ourselves to their guidance 
and control. 

I am sensible that my discoursing now, has been some- 
what desultory and vague. Perhaps, though I delight 
not in such discoursing generally, it has not been, in this 
instance, without a purpose. For the consciousness which 
I wish to address, is doubtless itself something, too 
shadowy and vague. But it is real, though indistinct. 
An unsatisfied asking is, for ever, in all human hearts. 
We know that the material crust of this earth does not 
limit our thoughts ; that the common-place of life does 
not suffice us ; that there are things in us, which go far 
beyond the range of our ordinary, earthly pursuits. De- 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



295 



praved as we may be, these things are true. They are 
indeed signs that we are fallen : but they are signs too 
that all is not lost. They are significant revelations ; and 
they are admonitions no less powerful. 

But now when our minds go out beyond the range of 
their visible action, what do they find 1 We have spoken 
of the great call of humanity ; what is the answer? 

The first answer comes from the mind itself. When 
we descend into the depths of our own being, we find de- 
sires which nothing less than the infinite can satisfy, 
powers fitted for everlasting expansion — powers w T hose 
unfolding at every step, only awakens new and vaster 
cravings : and sorrows, which all the accumulated wealth 
and pleasure of the world can never, never soothe. If 
a man's life consisted in that which he possesseth, how 
intolerable would it be ! To be confined to what we 
have and what we are, is to be shut up in a dungeon, 
where we cannot breathe ! Is not this whole nature then 
itself a stupendous argument for something greater to 
come 1 Is not this very consciousness deep in our souls, 
itself an answer ? When you look at the embryo bird in 
the shell, you know that it is made to burst that little 
prison. You see feet that are made to run, and wings, 
to fly. And as it pecks at the imprisoning shell, you 
see in that very impulse, the prophetic certainty that it is 
to come forth to light and air. And is the noblest being 
on earth alone to be for ever imprisoned — to perish in his 
prison ; — for ever to feel himself imprisoned — for ever to 
press against the barriers of his present knowledge and 
existence ; and never to go forth? Are man's embryo 
powers alone — are his cravings and aspirations after 



296 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY 



something higher, to be accounted no revealings, no pro- 
phecies of a loftier destiny] 

And again ; when we lift up our thoughts to the vast 
infinitude, what do we find 1 Order, holding its sublime 
reign among the countless revolving suns and systems ; 
and light, fair and beautiful, covering all as with a gar- 
ment. Look up to the height of heaven in some bright 
and smiling summer's day ; behold the etherial softness, 
the meteor of beauty that hangs over us ; and does it not 
seem as if it were an enfolding gentleness — a silent, 
hushed breathing of unutterable love ? Was ever a mo- 
ther's eye, bent on her child, more sweet and gentle ? 
Was ever a loving countenance, more full of ineffable 
meaning ? \ k Oh ! you sweet heavens !" hath many a poet 
said ; and can he who made those heavens, sublime and 
beautiful, wish us any harm ? Were you made lord of 
those heavens — could you hurl down unrecking sorrow 
and disaster upon the poor tremblers beneath you 1 God 
who hath breathed that pitying and generous thought into 
your heart, will not belie it in himself. My heart is to 
me a revelation, and heaven is to me a revelation of 
God's benignity. And when the voices of human want 
and sorrow go upward — as one has touchingly said, " like 
inarticulate cries, and sobbings of a dumb creature, which 
in the ear of heaven, are prayers" — -I can no more doubt 
that they find gracious consideration and pity above, 
than if a voice of unearthly tenderness breathed from the 
sky, saying, " poor frail beings ! borne on the bosom of 
imperfection, and laid upon the lap of sorrow — be patient 
and hopeful ; ye are not neglected nor forgotten ; the 
heaven above you, holds itself in majestic reserve, because 
ye cannot yet bear what it has to tell you — holds you in 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



297 



solemn suspense, which death only may break ; be faith- 
ful unto death — be trustful for a while ; and all your lofty 
asking shall have answer, and all your patient sorrow 
shall find issue, in everlasting peace." 

But, once more, there is more than a voice ; there is 
a revelation, in nature, and especially in the mission of 
Jesus Christ, more touching than words. 

1 have said that there is no uttered speech, from all 
around us ; and yet have maintained that there is expres- 
sion as clear and emphatic as speech ; and I now say, it 
is more expressive than speech. Let me observe here, 
that we are liable to lay quite an undue stress upon this 
mode of communication — upon speech ; simply because 
speech is the ordained and ordinary vehicle of converse 
between man and man. If men had communicated with 
one another by pantomime ; if forms, and not utterances 
had been the grand instruments of impression ; if human 
love had always been expressed only by a brighter glow 
of the countenance, and pity only by a softer shadowing 
upon its beauty, then had we better understood perhaps, 
the grand communication of nature. Then had the bright 
sky in the day-time, and the soft veil of evening, and all 
the shows of things, around the whole dome of heaven 
and amidst the splendor and beauty of the world — all 
these, I say, in the majesty of silence, had been a revela- 
tion, not only the clearest, but the most impressive that 
was possible. I say in the majesty of silence. For ac- 
customed as we are to speech ; how much more power- 
ful in some things, is silence ! How intolerable would it 
have been, if every day when it came, had audibly said, 
" God is good ; " and every evening when it stole upon 
us, had said, " God is good and every cloud when it 



298 



THE CALL OF HUMANITY 



rose, and every tree as it blossomed, and every plant as 
it sprung from the earth, had audibly said, " God is good !" 
No, the silence of nature is more impressive, would we 
understand it, than any speech could be ; it expresses 
what no speech can utter. No bare word can tell what 
that bright sky meaneth ; what the wealth of nature 
meaneth ; what is the heart's own deep assurance, that 
God is good. 

But yet more ; in the express revelation that is 
given us, it is not the bare word spoken, that is most 
powerful ; it is the character of interposing mercy 
that is spread all over the volume. It is the miracle ; 
that causes nature to break the secret of an all-controlling 
power, in that awful pause and silence. It is the loving 
and living excellence of Jesus — that miracle of his life, 
more than all. The word is but an attestation to some- 
thing done. Had it been done in silence — could all 
generations have seen Jesus living — Jesus suffering — 
and heaven opened — it had been enough. Words are 
but the testimony, that hath gone forth to all generations 
and all ages, of what hath been done. God is ever doing 
for us, what — be it said reverently — what he cannot 
speak. As a dear friend, can look the love, which he 
cannot utter ; so do I read the face of nature ; so do I 
read the record of God's interposing mercy. I feel my- 
self embraced with a kindness, too tender and strong for 
utterance. It cannot tell me how dear to the Infinite 
love, my welfare, my purity, is. Only by means and 
ministrations, by blessings and trials, by dealings and pres- 
sures of its gracious hand upon me, can it make me know. 
So do I read the volume of life and nature ; and so do I 
read the volume of revelation. I see in Jesus living — 



AND THE ANSWER TO IT. 



299 



in Jesus suffering — I see in the deep heart of his pain 
and patience, and love and pity, what no words can utter. 
I learn this not from any excellency of speech, but from 
the excellency of his living and suffering. Even in the 
human breast, the deepest things, are things which it can 
never utter. So it was in the heart of Jesus. So it is 
— I speak it reverently — in the nature of God, " For no 
ear hath ever heard, the things which God hath prepared 
for them that love him. But God hath revealed them to 
us by his spirit ; for the spirit — and the spirit alone — 
seaicheth all things, yea, the deep things of God." 



ERRATA. 



Page 24, 16th line from bottom, for " in," read is. 

" 38, 7th line from bottom, for " varieties," read vanit ies 
" 49, 2nd line from bottom, for " relationship," read rela- 
tionships. 

<c 76, 12th line at top, for "possession," read possessions. 
a 101, 1st line at top, for " turn," read term. 
" 117, Uth line at top, for " a self-discipline," read self- 
discipline. 

" 121, 10th line from bottom, for "Thomas, a Kempis," 
read Thomas a Kempis. 




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